The silly season that never was

By Conor Pope / @conorpope

A sallow-faced man watches television alone in a lampless room. The curtains are drawn, a bleak sunlight seeping in around the edges. He takes a bite out of an empty sandwich.

The news is on. Newspapers have been prying into the lives of the bereaved, trying to find a story. They nearly ruined an investigation into the disappearance of a young girl. They’ve been paying off police. It makes everyone frown.

Now Ed Miliband is on. He is standing in a school playground. He is frowning. He is explaining why all this makes him frown. Children are stood about fifteen yards behind him. They look confused as to why there is a man stood in their playground. This makes them frown. It begins to rain and they go inside. Ed Miliband gets wet. The rain runs down the frowny contours of his face and falls from his chin like droplets of judgement on News International’s moral depravity.

“Summer is coming,” notes the man, “Silly season must be here.”

Days come and go, but the man does not move from his place in front of the television. The news is always on. Frowning faces forever fill the corner of his room.

Rupert Murdoch, a man whose face sags in a perpetual frown, is giving evidence to the Culture, Media and Sport Select Committee. People are frowning at him. Another man, saddened by everyone frowning, tries to cheer them up by throwing a foam pie at Rupert Murdoch. Everyone frowns more.

In his room, the man rolls his eyes. “Foam pies! Silly season is nearly upon us.”

More days go by. The man does not move from his seat in front of the news. Images of frowning faces are now interspersed with big red numbers and arrows pointing down.

The foam pie man is now in jail. Now people are rioting in the streets. Their faces are covered; the man presumes they are frowning. The people throw flaming bottles and set homes on fire. Everyone frowns.

“They say the answer for throwing a brick or flaming bottle into someone’s livelihood or home is the same as for throwing a foam pie and hitting only yourself!” chirps the man. “To be sure, silly season is at the door.”

Again, the days pass: now David Cameron is standing in front of a faux-graffitied wall, talking about the riots. Cameron has a suntan from his five holidays. The man in his dark room has to turn down the brightness on his television. Cameron’s orange face is frowning. He is saying that the riots are pure criminality and that those who were old enough to commit them are old enough to face the consequences.

“This is all so silly!” the man scoffs. “Bullingdon Cameron! Perhaps violence is only excusable when it isn’t borne out of personal economic adversity. I feel silly season may be here.”

The man stays sitting on his settee as dawns brim and dusks fade. The red numbers on the news look more alarming as the down-pointing arrows grow larger. Scientists explain that a belt of antimatter surrounds Earth and aliens could possibly wage war on the human race. A poll shows Labour‘s lead slipping as we approach conference season.

“Conference season?” the man mutters to himself. He walks to the window and opens the curtains.

Behind him, on the television, they cut to the weather. The weatherman is explaining that the summer never came.

But September has arrived.

Reprehensible journalism, a corrupt police force, politicians in the pocket of a media mogul, riots across the land, a global financial meltdown, an ominous belt of antimatter and an imminent alien invasion.

“I must have dozed off during silly season.”