Friday the 13th

We’re a superstitious lot in the West. It seems appropriate to comment on it as its Friday the 13^th.

I realised the other day that I had absolutely no idea why this notorious Friday was singled out as being so special. After all, Thursday the 12^th is just as rare. What sparked my interest was a chat I was having with a mate, who pointed out to me that it was cheaper to fly on Friday the 13th than it is on any other Friday.

Why would that be?  Especially when you consider that most people don’t really know why Friday 13^th is supposed to be unlucky.

Like most things that are utterly unquestioned and blindly followed, the idea probably sprang from Christian myth. Thirteen has been considered an unlucky number since Christ sat down to his last Supper. There is even a superstition that having thirteen people seated at a table will result in the death of one of the diners.

In numerology, thirteen is considered an irregularity, as it transgresses the completeness of number twelve, “as reflected in the twelve months of the year, twelve hours of the clock, twelve gods of Olympus, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve Apostles of Jesus.”

And according to Christian scripture and tradition, Jesus was crucified on a Friday… how could they possibly know this…really?

Friday has been considered an unlucky day at least “since the 14th century's The Canterbury Tales, and many other professions have regarded Friday as an unlucky day to undertake journeys, begin new projects or deploy releases in production.” Wikipedia

So the unlucky day itself is probably a modern amalgamation of these ideas, as the concept of a Friday the 13^th was not in written evidence before the 19th century. “The earliest known documented reference in English occurs in Henry Sutherland Edwards' 1869 biography of Gioachino Rossini.” Wikipedia.

The idea really spread in 1907, when Thomas W Lawson published a highly popular novel named Friday, the 13^th, and of course, there was that film that re-lit the mythological fires on the subject…

But there is no evidence, only fictional supposition, to support the idea that Friday the 13^th is unlucky, any more than there is evidence to support the idea that Monday the 16^th is lucky. (Just don’t tell the airlines this!)

Did you know that the fear of Friday the 13th is called friggatriskaidekaphobia?  Try telling someone that!

Can you believe we live in an age of such insecurity, that we have to invent names for phobias created by fiction?

SHORT STORY: Trial of the free man; Part FOUR

Drake was dumped in a chair, which was far more comfortable than he expected it to be.  A bag, which had been pulled over his head, was peeled off to allow a 400-watt fluorescent bulb pierce spikes of light into his unadjusted retina.

“Walter, put the light down, this is not Guantanamo!”

A desk lamp was retracted, and Drake’s vision slowly returned, allowing his dry eyes drink the information of his surroundings. He seemed to be in an Aquarium, or at least above one. Clusters of turtles swam beneath his feet under 20 inches of glass flooring.  The walls and ceiling also made of glass formed a dome, which perfectly framed the storm outside and created the illusion that the room was floating like a bubble in space.

The Advisory stood to attention at his side.

Three old men, each wrapped in purple dressing gowns, sat cramped uncomfortably together in a rowing boat seven feet away from Drakes seat. They grumbled in a dissatisfied huddle, until the middle Admiral announced. “Let’s move this along Walter, what seems to be the trouble?”

Walter, a man who made the word obese seem small, waddled as best as his legs could carry him to present the case to the Admirals. “My lords,” he spluttered, 18 chins wobbling under his round moon face. “As the most humble clerk of this most humble court of Destiny, it is my humble…”

“Get bloody well on with it!” Cried the Admiral to the left.

Walter mopped a film of sweat from his brow. “My most humble apologies. Two of our agents claim to have discovered a non-fictional being.”

“Never!”

“Never!”

“Never!” Each Admiral echoed the last in louder and sounder agreement.

“Never,” repeated the middle Admiral “has there been a non fictional entity on our watch!”

“27 billion years” echoed the Admiral to his right. “Have we, the Admiral’s of Destiny steered the course of this universes narratives and NEVER has there been a character out of place or a happenchance we did not chance to happen.”

“Never!” Re-stated the left Admiral.

 “Never”, brown-nosed Walter, sneering at Drake.

“What say you Advisory.” Said the left Admiral, glaring over at the duo like a dentist into a rotting molar. “What can you illuminate for us?”

“Some,” said the Advisory, taking the floor, “interesting details Admirals. “The very fabric of the universe is woven in narrative, everything is connected, all fiction interweaves in a perfect coincidental harmony. Every person has a part to play in the grand tapestry of life. And it is all thanks to you Admirals.” He paused, more for effect than necessity, and when he felt the time was right, continued seamlessly. “However, we are facing quite a problem here, as, it is true. Drake here is a character without a story in your fictional universe.”

“Never!” Cried out the centre Admiral, rocking the boat with a shake of his fist.

“Never!” Agreed the Admirals of the right and left.

 “Indeed!” Sucked up Walter. “Admirals, my Lords, Master and controllers of the continuum of continuum, if this being has lost his plot, it is not your fault.”

“Here-here!” Cried the Admirals in unison.

“However,” interrupted the Advisory pointing to the ceiling above “This is your problem. It could not have escaped your attention, Admirals, but it is raining in paradise.”

 The three Admirals looked up, then at each other, and busily huddled together in a conspiratorial meeting. Finally they adjourned, and rejoined the room, allowing the centre Admiral to act as spokesman. “It has not escaped our attention, are you suggesting that the arrival of this being has something to do with the storms?”

“More than suggesting. If I may call forth my first witness, Agent Grover”

“Please do.” Said the Admiral to the left, folding his arms.

Grover came forth, stopped three steps short of the Admirals boat, saluted each one individually then took his place behind a red podium.

The Advisory approached. “Grover, you realise lying is pointless.”

“Of course.”

“Good. In your own words, what the hell is going on here?”

Grover cleared his throat. “I was out on patrol last night, as per usual, with my partner, Ackerman. We were scanning the narrative life force of a distant creation named Earth, it’s on our patch, and we found…a glitch.”

“You refer to this being here,” said the Advisory, pointing at Drake.

“I do,” said Grover. “We were driving down a deserted highway and he, quite literally, fell out of the sky.”

The Admirals gasped.

 “Fell out of the sky?” The Advisory stuttered, looking back at Drake in a brand new light. Drake shrugged. “Are you sure?” The advisory probed.

Grover nodded towards the Admirals. “He fell out of the sky, and the rain quickly followed. It was a…” he hesitated before conceding “miracle.”

“Blasphemy!” Cried Walter intervening, pointing sternly at Grover, “you are on thin ice here Agent Grover!”

“I should co-co!” agreed the middle Admiral, rising to his feet. “Are you trying to somehow insinuate that God, the Mover and the Shaker, is back? And that we, the Admirals of Destiny, are so powerless that we did not detect this?”

“N-no,” said Grover, cowering like a scolded dog. “B-but he fell out of the sky. We immediately brought him here. Immediately.”

“Let’s hope.” Said the Admiral, re-taking his seat. “Call forth Ackerman.”

PART THREE SHORT STORY: Trial of the Free man

“Curiouser and curiouser…” The advisory took notes.

“What is going on?” Asked Drake, itching to remember or at least scratch the surface of his current mystery. “They said I was non - fictional.”

“Indeed,” said the Advisory.

“Isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that mean I’m real?”

The Advisory paused in shock. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

“I don’t remember. It just seems logical that a non-fictional being would be real.”

“Mr Drake, what part of reality is real? Think about it…the truth, or reality, is a story.”

“We have a non-fictional being with us.” Said Grover, pounding on the door.  Thunder rolled from out of the heavens. The storm was spreading. The rain fell in drops the size of gumballs, catapulted from the clouds upon their victims below. There was no shelter for the men as the doorkeeper hesitated further.

“Do you want us to drown?” Grover shouted at the closed door. “What are you going to tell the Admirals? Eh? That the only non-fictional being that ever existed was here, but, he was swept away by a monsoon before we had the chance to tell you?”

 “This had better not be a rouse!” Said the doorkeeper.

“For all that is holy, LET US IN!”

“I will need a password.” Persisted the doorkeeper, “however, if what you say is true, I am prepared to give you a clue. What is black and white a red all over.”

“Newspaper.” Said Drake without hesitation. Grover and Ackerman stared at him as if he was the last miracle of Christ, and the door was opened. They all sloshed in passing the doorkeeper, trouping in a line like a group of extra absorbent ducks, dripping water by the pint in their wake.

Puddles quickly amassed at their feet on the lobby floor of the Manor, which was laid out like an enormous chequers board, tiled with over 10’000 Onyx and Ivory squares, making it clear to any visitor that whoever owned a house like this, probably also owned a money-printing factory. No expense needed to be spared.

A spiral staircase swept majestically up to the next floor, while two enormous corridors, as wide as sewer tunnels, lead left and right. All of the furniture was red, including the telephone placed on the red table left of the doors. Drake did not know this. He could see nothing behind his blindfold.

“He doesn’t look non-fictional.” Said the doorkeeper, pinching Drakes arm.

“Believe us,” said Ackerman shaking with cold, “this man is as plotless as the ocean. Call the Admirals.”

“But what is your evidence?” Asked the doorkeeper, prodding Drakes ribcage.

“If he were fictional, would he be as calm as he is? He hasn’t freaked out at all. If he were fictional, the first thing he would have realised is that he had lost his plot when we kidnapped him.” Said Grover, “Do you have a towel?”

“You could have sedated him.”

“Does he look sedated?” Grover lost his patience. “Towel? Please? I’m becoming a water feature!”

Ackerman diplomatically stepped forward. “I think what Grover is trying to say is this – we found this being on Earth, only, he is not human. Nor is he one of the other thousands of species, sentient or otherwise, that belong on that planet or any of the other planets within a travelling distance. A quick check of the database told us immediately that this being should not be in existence at all. No story matches his; he does not have a story. This is why we brought him here at once.”

“And can I have a towel.” Added Grover.

The doorkeeper stepped back, once more ignoring Grover’s request. “What is his title?”

“Drake.” Said Ackerman.

“Hmmm. Do you know why you are here?” Said the doorkeeper, prodding Drake.

“No.” Drake answered.

“Are you concerned?”

“No.”

“You have just been picked up by two strange men, on a planet you had no right to be on, and you are not alarmed?”

Drake thought about it honestly. “Nope.”

“I shall wake the Admirals.” Said the doorkeeper as he shuffled to the telephone to make the call. He was an ancient man, far beyond the age of sudden movement. It took him minutes to shuffle 3 yards, and a further minute to lift the telephone receiver. His call connected.  The conversation was mumbled, but over in three seconds. Hanging up the phone he pointed at Grover. “Take the person to meet the advisory. The Admirals shall see to it forthwith.”

Drake was grabbed by his left arm, and escorted to the right wing.

“Hmmm…”The Advisory scribbled more notes, “you had better read your contract before we go in.”

Drake lifted the sheet of paper he had struggled to read earlier. “What is it for?”

Before the advisory could explain, there were three knocks on the door, followed by the short command ”the Admirals will see him now!”

The advisory closed the ledger and slotted it back into his briefcase. “It’s time Drake, just be yourself and all will be well.”

“But I can’t remember who I am.”

“Good point. Oh well, let’s just give it our best shot then.”

SHORT STORY: Trial of the free man; Part TWO

PART TWO

“So, tell me about Earth?”

Drake tried, but as far as he knew, he had never been there. “Remember can’t I.”

“Do you remember when you first encountered Ackerman and Grover?”

He tried.

He could remember very few things.

But, he had been tapped on the shoulder, blindfolded, and situated into a car. Someone sat next to him on the back passenger seat, while another drove slow enough to ease an unfit snail on a journey that seemed to take days. Wherever he was being taken, no matter how against his own will it was, there was absolutely nothing he wanted to do about it.

“Can you remember anything about Earth?”

“No.”

“The agents say you did not resist. Did you recognise Ackerman or Grover?”

“No.”

The Advisory tried a different tack. “What can you tell me about the rain, Mr Blank?”

Rain did not so much fall as plummet and ricochet onto the roof of the car as it crawled through the water logged road. The strong swishes of the windscreen wipers swept litres of water per second from the drivers view, but he could still see bugger all.

“You’ve missed the turn again Grover!” Complained the deep, frustrated voice of the man sitting next to Drake. Drake could not see the map, but heard it torn into four angry pieces.

“I am doing my best, Ackerman, but this is bloody ridiculous!” The driver leered over the wheel, pressing his nose against the windscreen. “Bloody Noah didn’t have this much weather to contend with!”

“If we don’t get a move on, this one is going to forget everything.”

 “I can’t stop the rain.”

“Argument the remember can I.” Said Drake smiling, relieved he had at least one glimmer of light shining in recall.

“Which argument?” The advisory shuffled closer. “Tell me about the argument.”

Grover parked the car at the threshold of an enormous security gate surrounded by 20 foot electric fencing laced with barbed wire.  He got out and was gone three seconds, before returning to the car looking like an iceberg had melted on him. Seconds later the gate whirred open, steel scraped against steel, and they drove in.

“Do you know who you are?” Ackerman asked Drake desperately, as if he were a doctor hanging onto the pulse of a dying patient.

“Erm..?” Answered Drake as honestly as he could.

“You see?” Exclaimed Ackerman, exasperated. “He’s forgetting! We have found the one that can bring this farce to an end once and for all, and he is forgetting!”

“Then keep reminding him.”

“Reminding him of what? He doesn’t have a story!”

“Then make one up, he is supposed to be fictional! If we don’t keep at least one little grey cell pumping information through that mysterious head of his, we are going to lose him before the Admirals see him.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do? Plant his family tree?”

“Give him a branch at least…give him a name!”

“Okay.” Ackerman faced Drake. “We are going to call you Drake, for the sake of this story. Okay?”

“Okay.” Said Drake.

“Okay.” Confirmed Ackerman. “Happy?” He countered to his cohort.

“Oh yeh,” said Grover stopping the car in the gravel driveway of the enormous Gothic manor house. “Just you tell me when to blow up the first balloon! Come on.”

Drake was hustled out of the car and lead up thirty-nine steps. He would have got less soaked being frog marched through a carwash. The rain hit his head so hard it hurt; his clothing soon became insignificant and clung to his body like a second sloppy skin.

They arrived at an enormous door and, without the need for the formality of knocking; a latch opened revealing two dusty eyes.

“Password.” Said the doorkeeper

“Helicopter.”

“That was yesterdays password.”

Ackerman checked his watch. It was 12.01.

“Shit. I bloody knew we would be too late!” He kicked the door and broke a toe. Karma worked quickly at the Manor.

Grover pushed forward. “Just let us in. It’s cats and poodles out here!”

“There is protocol Grover.” Persisted the jobs-worth doorkeeper. “You know the system. No password, no entry.”

“It’s an emergency!”

“Says you. No password. No entry.”

“We have a non-fictional being with us.” Piped in Ackerman, pulling Drake forward into sight. Thunder rolled from out of the heavens. The storm was spreading.

“What can you tell me about the rain, Mr Blank?”

“Raining was it that only.” Said Drake. “Soaked was I.”

“It still is raining, Mr Blank.” Said the advisory, re-crossing his legs. “Yet another problem as we don’t ever get rain here, actually it has never rained here, until you arrived. Tampering with weather systems would certainly be a crime in the eyes of my employers, if anyone had ever managed it before you. We may have to make a precedent out of this case, if it ever goes to hearing, which is inevitable really. The Admirals are being woken as we speak. It is incredibly important that you realise just how much damage you could potentially do, and are doing, to the space-time continuum if we don’t get this little mess cleared up.”

“They called me Drake.” Drake paused on the clarity of the words, as if a stutter had been magically removed. He spoke again, forwards and with rediscovered confidence. “My name here is Drake.” He smiled.

“Well, Drake…” said the advisory, impressed with the sudden quantum leap in progress. “This case just gets curiouser and curiouser.”

TO BE CONTINUED....

SHORT STORY: Trial of the free man; Part One

The contract was written in the smallest writing, barely recognisable words were squashed into lines with no spaces or punctuation. It was as if a drunken spider had staggered into a pot of ink and danced across the page.

So Drake gave up trying to read, his eyes were strained in the almost darkness of the space, which was probably best described as a cupboard.  A single 10-watt bulb hung from the ceiling fitting, with no shade to decorate the light. There were no windows, and only enough room for the chair Drake was sitting in, and another chair directly facing him, barely two knee spaces apart. Sheets from the day’s newspaper covered the floors.

 Drake had entered the room blindfolded and been gently deposited in his seat by two very polite kidnappers, so there was no way of telling if this tiny bare room was in the city, in the country, in any place he had ever been to before.  The more he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the point at which he was kidnapped. He couldn’t remember anything beyond the point of being put here, having his blindfold removed, and being given his instructions to wait.

He had no idea what he was waiting for until the door swung outward, and a well-dressed man entered, taking his place in the chair facing him, “so sorry to keep you waiting.” He said, placing an expensive briefcase squarely on his lap. He seemed friendly, his apology was sincere, and the way he opened the briefcase gave Drake the impression that he would at least be gentle, if not helpful.

 “You are who?” Drake listened to the words as they dropped backwards from his mouth. He spoke slower, trying to regain control. “You are who?”

Had he forgotten how to speak straight? He considered this before saying anything else. Obviously he had not forgotten how to think straight, or he would not have noticed the skill that he had taken for granted for so long no longer available to him.

“Yes, you see, there is your problem.” The man’s voice was as rich and smooth as purple satin, pitched in a tone that could have birds swooning out of trees.He placed the briefcase on the floor and neatly crossed his legs, his perfectly tailored trousers folding exactly where they should, flashing a cm of lime green sock from above his ankle high boot. 

His hair was drawn perfectly back from his brow, slick and black, as if it had been coloured there with permanent marker.  He was perfectly groomed, his fingernails like ivory placemats on the broad tabletops of his hand. Tanned, but not over sunned. A dark green tie hung loosely, yet purposefully so, within the broad collars of his ultra white shirt.

“Do you remember your name?”

Drake tried: it was like trying to hug a salmon in the shower.

“So. I suppose this would be a good time to tell you what you are charged with.”

“With charged?”

The man pulled out a ledger from within the briefcase, opened it to the centre pages and began to read aloud. “You were found by two agents patrolling a place named…let me see…it’s here somewhere…oh yes, Earth.”

Drake sat in the dark warehouse of his mind without a memory for company. “Remember I can’t why?”

“You can’t remember, Mr Blank, because you have lost your plot, if you ever had one.”

“Plot?”

“Your story. Everyone in this universe is connected by stories Mr Blank, everyone therefore must have a story to move the greater narrative of life along. It is designed to be so. Your place in the great cosmic narrative, however, seems to have erased itself. You are a character without a plot.”

“Understand don’t I.”

“I’m not surprised at all, you have absolutely no frame of reference. If I were in your position I’d be pretty span out too.” He shuffled in his seat, rephrasing himself. “The people I work for have a record of everyone who is born, has been born and will be born in every corner of this universe. There is no record of you, however. The question is where did you come from, and how did you get here?”

“Remember don’t I.”

“Indeed.” He said, patting down his pockets for a pen. “That was rhetorical. You were found on Earth so let’s start there. Is this a place of some significance? Tell me the first thing that comes in your mind.”

“You are who?”

“I could tell you, but very confidential I’m afraid. Just refer to me as the advisory.”  The advisory popped the lid from a biro he found clipped to his shirt, and eagerly scribbled down the date and details in the top left hand corner of a fresh page of ledger.

“Advisory?”

“Here to advise you on your case,” he said, still engrossed in his notes, “and if need be, defend you.”

“Me defend? Done I have what?”

“Yes, well, for one thing it probably has not have slipped your attention that you are talking back. That is a serious crime in the eyes of my employers, I’m afraid, it is a classic side effect of someone who has rebelled against all direction, if not lost direction altogether.”

“Direction lost have I?”

“Indeed. Everything in the universe is being directed forward, or outward if you like. Nothing is going backwards Mr Blank, apart from memories, but even they are being created in the present. The system ensures that all things run within an arrow of time all pointing in the same direction. Evolution requires it, you see.  You Mr Blank are a spanner in the works of a system that has never failed, until now.”

TO be continued....

CCTV in the net

So…let me get my head around this next little chapter in our Governments glorious reign. In no less than a week, we have had pasty tax, a fuel crisis, and now Home Secretary Theresa May wants to introduce new legislation in the Queen’s Speech enabling law-enforcement agencies to snoop on us using facebook, Twitter and on-line gaming forums.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before MI5 enforced the crackdown on that known hotbed of terrorist activity World of Warcraft.  According to the Independent today: “Regional police forces, MI5 and GCHQ, the Government's eavesdropping centre, would be given the right to know who speaks to whom "on demand" and in "real time.” Home Office officials said the new law would keep crime-fighting abreast of developments in instant communications – and that a warrant would still be required to view the content of messages.”

Oh, well that’s okay then. It’s just fine, as Nick Pickles, director of Big Brother Watch campaign group described, that this “unprecedented step will see Britain adopt the same kind of surveillance as in China and Iran.” Because, unlike Rupert Murdoch’s gang of world news gathering miscreants, the Government will have legislation permitting them to hack into your calls, especially if you use Skype.

Perhaps it is because our enemies hate us so much for our freedom, that our government in its infinite wisdom is eroding their reasons for attacking us? Because lets face it, this move to probe into our private lives has nothing at all to do with curtailing threat, and everything to do with controlling citizens. 

David Davis, the former Conservative shadow Home Secretary said to the Independent, this law “is not focusing on terrorists or on criminals, it is absolutely everybody. Historically, governments have been kept out of our private lives. They don't need this law to protect us. This is an unnecessary extension of the ability of the state to snoop on ordinary innocent people in vast numbers.”

This is not the first time that they have tried to do this, the “big brother database” was first proposed by former Labour Home Secretary Jacqui Smith, but was abandoned after strong opposition in 2009 by the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats.  However, because the Democrats have changed their tune so dramatically, this time those pesky kids could be the reason that they get away with it.

Shami Chakrabarti, director of Liberty, told Sky News's Dermot Murnaghan "This is more ambitious than anything that has been done before. The Coalition bound itself together in the language of civil liberties. Do they still mean it?"

What was it that Shakespeare said, something about absolute power corrupting absolutely?

A senior adviser to Nick Clegg said to the Independent that he had been “persuaded of the merits of extending the police and security service powers but insisted they would be carefully looking at the detail. The law is not keeping pace with the technology and our national security is being eroded on a daily basis."

Let’s face it, if all it takes to erode our national security is a few amusing animal pictures posted up on facebook, alongside drunken pictures that no one remembers being taken of them, then it is closer to the truth to say the threat is to our national insecurity. Are we actually going to pay “intelligence officers” to sit and monitor every time Jane Brown of Wiltshire updates her status, or if Ali Ayoub of Birmingham has updated to timeline?

A senior industry official of the Internet Service Provider's Association went on record with the Sunday Times to say "The network operators are going to be asked to put probes in the network and they are upset about the idea... it's expensive, it's intrusive to your customers, it's difficult to see it's going to work and it's going to be a nightmare to run legally."

Just stop and think for a moment. Who are they looking for? You are the customers, the citizens and the people that make this, and every, countries population. Without you, the government would have no power, and there are always more of us.

We are the threat. The government does not serve you as it proclaims to; it serves the interests of those who pay for it to usurp your interests, the bankers, and the big business tycoons. Those who have fingers in all of the resourceful pies (and do not mind how hot those pies are, because they are not the ones paying for them) are the ones who really decide the future of your country. Not you. Does this make you angry? It should.

It is your servants who hate you for your freedom.

Guess who's coming to dinner: The Petrol Crisis

What’s the difference between me, and David Cameron? David Cameron can kiss my arse…

I’m grateful never to have owned a car, as it keeps two utter evils out of my life: the need to converse with Traffic Wardens and the need to buy petrol. David “the kettle black” Cameron has had rather a sticky week, what with news of his exclusive dining club and pasty tax flooding the media. It seems our poor, hard-working and honest leader was feeling the stress a little. Did he take it like a man? Did his broad, atlas-like shoulders bare the weight of his duty to serve us?

Nope. He instigated a fuel crisis.

As the shadow Chancellor, Ed Balls (such a shame he didn’t become a professional footballer), claimed in the Independent today: "I do think that political games were played. I think the Prime Minister woke up on Monday morning and thought, 'I've got the worst weekend I've had in government, [so] why don't I try to divert attention? Then suddenly, out of the blue, we had government ministers talking up a strike which wasn't even called.”

Motorists were queuing for hours as a direct result of Cameron’s manipulative words to “be sensible”, and other Ministers mis-information for the public to keep their tanks two-thirds full after disputes sparked within Unite. Some 90% of UK forecourts are supplied by Unite's approximately 2,000 members involved in the dispute, their drivers deliver fuel to Shell and Esso garages and supermarkets such as Tesco and Sainsbury's.

A Downing Street official privately admitted to the Independent that its message on the shortage threat got "out of control".

“We wanted the public to be aware of the strike but not be panicked. That got confused with the political messaging about the irresponsibility of Unite. Things got out of control and it became a feeding frenzy."

I should coco! Demand for petrol rose 172% on Thursday and diesel by 77% according to independent retailers' group RMI Petrol.

And then Cameron had the sheer nerve to call Unite irresponsible.

A government that deliberately ignites a fuel shortage threat, Francis Maude calling for us to “fill up our jerry cans”, to divert public attention from their own misdoings is more than irresponsible, its outright dangerous. One woman set herself on fire, suffering 40 percent burns decanting fuel in her kitchen. Although we can’t blame the government entirely for people not taking health and safety precautions in their homes, why on Earth would a responsible government fuel such panic and fear in the first place?

Answer: A responsible government wouldn’t! Even senior Conservative MP Bernard Jenkin agrees; "Really there should not have been any move to encourage people to buy more than they normally buy without consulting the industry first, and I think that was the mistake."

Again, I should coco!

It has now become very clear that, if there was ever going to be a strike, it’s not going to be happening over Easter, Ministers now completely u-turning by saying that there is no urgent need to top up your tanks. However, according to the BBC website: “The rules on fuel tanker drivers' hours have been temporarily relaxed to help the transport of supplies to filling stations. Under EU rules, drivers are limited to nine hours on the road each day, but this has now been raised to 11 hours. The new rules will apply until Thursday and have been introduced after requests from the fuel supply industry.”

Cameron went so far as to say he was pleased by the decision. Of course he was, but not as pleased as those who run the oil companies who will be making millions out of this crisis, I’m sure.