Reasserting control

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News just in that the UK Government have taken the very unusual step of naming something big, new and shiny, that is being built at taxpayer’s expense, after a wee auld lady of unimaginable wealth born into unelected privilege and luxury whilst surrounded by sycophantic worship. 

Wow! We never seen that one coming! It’s no’ like they’ve ever done it before. No, and we can rest assured, sleeping easy, that no politician, or member of a committee responsible for the naming of said big new shiny something, built at taxpayer’s expense, will at some point end up on either on one knee having a sword rattled off their shooder or leaning over a bit to let the wee auld dear reach up to pin a bit of silver with a fancy ribbon on their left tit. Naw, that will never happen.

Yes folks, as reported by the propaganda arm of the state, the governor of our North British province, wee Davey Mundell’s, “flagship’ multi-million pound new seven-storey hub in Edinburgh will be called Betty’s Building, just for a change!

Davey, in his role as Viceroy of Joy, is said to be absolutely delighted, ecstatic in his windy verbal emissions, asserting that the royal title is hugely fitting, as his hub will focus on wee Betty’s London government’s work in Scotland, oh and it might also help Davey’s chances of an early entry to the Lords if he prattles on like Nicholas Witchell on pints of lager tops and gin and Red Bull halfs long enough for everybody to hear how wonderfully wonderful it all is.

Taking a more serious tone for just a moment, like many others of an independence-mind when it comes to Scotland, I’m starting to get more than just a wee bit edgy about the purpose and intent of these hubs that are springing up (they are building one in Glesca as well) particularly as the aforementioned Secretary of State Against Scotland is also falling over himself to let us know that his hub will contain a dedicated cabinet room, the only one of its kind outside London, in which the government which usually govern Scotland from another country, can meet and do their business from.  

I know they’ve listed the departments moving in, including the tax man, the Advocate General and the H&S Executive, but there could be, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see, a move being made to limit the funding provision (of our own money) at Holyrood in favour of direct spending from London (of our own money)via this northern base, backed up by that huge red, white and blue publicity campaign (again that you are paying for) that we’ve been hearing about recently. After all they’ll know better about how money should be spent in your country than you do.

Maybe too this spanking new facility will be so state-of-the-art that wee Davey, when he finds that politically he has to make himself scarce, as he does now again when him or his colleagues at Westminster say something daft or announce a policy that would give a snowman a red neck (when it happen to Ruth Davidson she just hangs out in her tank for a week) can comfortably munch on his snack-beard from a meeting room onsite, whilst speaking by high definition video link to the bemused and bewildered people of the Republic of Kiribati in the central Pacific Ocean, telling them that nobody wants an independence referendum and that the vile separatists have a one track mind when it comes to vile separatism, without actually having to fly there business class.

We’ll save a fortune. The UK’s debt in Scotland, or as it’s otherwise known the GERs cloud of doom, will be slashed virtually overnight.

I think the growing numbers of Scots who are awakening their minds to the idea of their country becoming normal, like most other countries in the world, making all the major decisions which impact their nation, will see through any attempts at smoke and mirrors.

However the Westminster government are worth the watching. They’ve got centuries of form at this stuff. There’s an old imperial saying that goes something like this. ‘Why does the sun never set on the British Empire? Because you can’t trust them in the dark.” It’s not wrong. Beware.

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A note passed under the door

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The Right Honourable Theresa May, Jeremy Rhyming Slang,and Boris de Pfeffel Mumbling Bumbling Johnson, (whichever of you is actually the Prime Minister of England and the subjugated surrounding countries it shares land borders with, and a bit of the island of Ireland)
Number 10 Downing Street, Metropolis, ‘The Smoke’ City State.

Dear Prime Minister/s

Yooz are a pure rid neck. You’ve really gone and done it now. Lumping us in with your narrow-minded dead empire xenophobia like that.

How dare you suggest to rooms full of your own sycophants and an adoring media that the people of Scotland will never have the opportunity to be normal like most every other country in the world. In fact how dare you go to the extent of competing with each other to see who can appear to be the most punitive amongst you in your treatment of a country you do not understand. How dare you indeed.

For many centuries before the early 18th century predecessors of your pals, assorted crooked bankers, wankers, businessmen, landed gentry and Lords, corruptly bribed their way into taking control of our lands we in Scotland had well-established trading and cultural links with mainland Europe, the Low Countries and Scandinavia.

France was our big pal, we had our “auld alliance” we traded together, we ate together, when required we stood shoulder to shoulder together, often on the quiet again you, we even had a regiment in their army, and importantly we drank claret together. Don’t even think of labelling us with your small minded isolationist arrogance.

We’re not going with you. As the clever social media meme says “ if we don’t go with what you gonnae dae, get the polis?”

We all know, and the leadership of the European Union in particular know, that you are still just playing for time. You’ve had your extension, you chose to go on holiday and hold a leadership contest, and lo and behold Parliament is just about to have another summer recess, at a time when the biggest economic disaster to befall the UK since the Black Death is on the horizon.

You’ve no plan, no clue about how you are going to cope with exiting Europe, and relying solely on the only thing Britain is good at, making repetitive arrogant demands with nothing to back up your confidence.

Why not just admit that a bunch of screwed up overprivileged racists and muppets like Farage, Gove, Fox and Johnson, along with the Daily Mail and Express, conned the people of England into thinking the European Union is the devil incarnate? Just tell them you are very sorry about that and can we please just forget it ever happened?

Yours in disgust.

The people of Scotland, who are rapidly getting normal without any need to ask your permission to do so.

What a sook

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Wae that flyaway hair ae his, like a coo appearing through the mist, the dishevelled de Pfeffel stumbles on through what appears to be an interminable selection process to become the next high heid yin of the executive branch of the privileged class of the UK. 

Take heed, (not heid) said the EU in March, use the time of the extension you’ve been given well, for there is no scope for wasted moments at this stage of the debacle which is Brexit. The Tories promptly went on holiday, drank loads of Pimms at sporting events and garden parties, and decided to do nothing more than have an internal bunfight about who their next leader is. Arrogance is not strong enough a word to describe how they are, and pride surely comes before a fall.
 
In Scotland de Pfeffel’s fanboy, he really is a wee nyaff, the member for SNP Gain (what were the folk of Aberdeen South smoking on the day of the last general election?) defends and praises his every move, his every utterance, almost like the Bullingdon blusterer is channelling a mix of Churchill, Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Harry Enfield’s Tim Nice But Dim all rolled into one. 
 
His latest lickspittle defence of the shaggy-heided latin speaker, who effectively pushed the UK’s representative to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, which the White House has become, into resigning earlier than his planned retirement, by not publicly sticking up for the diplomat in the face of a veritable avalanche of toys being chucked out the presidential pram, is beyond the pale. According to Ross Thomson diplomats telling the truth in private correspondence, doing their job, shouldn’t be defended if they inadvertently poke the ego of narcissistic maniacs who are in charge of nuclear codes, and that must be right because Boris Johnson said so, so there.
 
Thomson has clearly had a gander at the new Waverley Hub plans of wee Davey, the Secretary of State Against Scotland’s, new office. No expense is being spared on this pristine architectural representation of the British state in Scotland (the expense of course coming out of the pockets of the people of Scotland).

Gone are the days when Ross and wee Davey would turn up at Holyrood in a removal van dressed in long brown coats, pencil behind the ear, blag their way in, and then embarrassingly get caught red-handed on either end of a committee room table by a security guard, because they’d managed to wedge it in the doorway whilst trying to sneak furniture out to be rehomed in the Scotland Office. Oh no, there’ll be no need for that now. Money is no object, there is a provincial empire to be built.    
 
Ross likes what he sees and he reckons once his patron bumbles his way into Downing Street wee Davey will be for the Joe the Toff, and he will be crowned the new Viceroy of Joy. Just think about that for a minute.

For the people of Scotland there is an alternative.
 
Independence is normal. It is coming, maybe sooner than we think.

The worrying rise of normality in Scotland

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Well,  would you credit that? Roused from the deep slumber of three years of perpetual inertia by her impending launch, heid first, into an unsuspecting hay field, with the words “Bolt hen” ringing in her ears, the soon to be former Disco Dancing Diva of Downing Street is trying, like the wee Dutch fella with the sodden finger, to stop a flood, a flood of enlightenment, a veritable Tsunami of blossoming democracy and confidence amongst the populace of Scotland in their own selves to do as good, in fact to do a much better job, at governing their future, than the government imposed on them from another country.
 
Fresh from her Gordy Broon-like ‘save the humphy-backed broad shooders  of our Preciousssssss Union’ intervention the other day she’s now chairing hurried meetings of senior lackeys in what’s being called the ‘Union Cabinet’ worried that the house of straw which unionism now represents to most folk, when considering the relationship which now exists between Scotland and the neighbour to the south which governs Scotland, is about to blow away into the English channel (not the BBC, the watery one).
 
Under heavy fire from howitzer rounds of tattie scones, sharpened edged square sliced and last week’s mutton pies Theresa has been swamped, amid calls from several of the aforementioned lackeys, amongst them David Lidlingtonlinglidton- tinlid, to do something about the worrying rise of normality in Scotland. Quick Prime Minister, they cry, the Scotch are acting like they live in a normal country anywhere else in the world, we can’t have that!
 
After a particularly persistent belligerent deep fried tomato pizza, wrapped roon a pickled ingin, managed to evade all attempts by the anti-aircraft defence battery set up in Downing Street to  stop it and splattered full force into the Cabinet office windae, leaving an awfy mess, it appears that the ‘Union Cabinet’ have decided that they need to now concentrate on strengthening and sustaining the Union by going on to Plan X, a permanent campaign focus to fight off the separatistas (celestial beings save us!).
 
This new plan will of course mean that they are gonnae have to spend a fortune, tens of millions of pounds, in a huge propaganda campaign to make the case for the Union. You’ll no’ be able to hear yourselves think shortly for the noise of the Red Arrows circling above you in the sky, loopin the loop, forming the words Precccccccious and Union as they go.

Ye thought you’d seen enough union flags in your supermarkets, atop your local council buildings and polis stations and attached to the arms of Neanderthals in the month of July. You ain’t seen nothing yet! Big hairy fermers, swarthy north east fishermen, pet unionist Whisky magnates, Mr Oil and Gas  (and fishing on the side) who tells us, when it suits his masters, that the oil has went into hiding again, all of them will be dragged out to tell us online, in the HootsmonHerald, and on the state broadcaster, how great life is under the protection of another country’s governance.

That hub that they’ve just built for wee Davey, the stuttering Viceroy of Joy, will be a hive of activity. There will be civil servants tripping over themselves to be productive on this project in a hot desking frenzy of Britannic bliss and Empire biscuits.
 
Guess what? You are going to be paying for that. Any money spent will be allocated to Treasury funds spent on Scotland’s behalf, and will inevitably turn up as part of the UK’s debt in Scotland, or as it’s otherwise known, part of the accumulation of the annual GERS report. Westminster will spend your tax money to benefit the image of the Union in your country, and then they can say, as they always do, as part of that confidence trick that they perpetuate, helped by the media, to convince your friends and neighbours that Scotland has a huge debt it is responsible for, that we are too wee, too poor and, in this case not sufficiently aware of the facts to think otherwise. A double whammy! Fly eh….
 
Time to go folks, it really is. Independence is normal.

If you say something often enough

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Where do they get their information? What facts exist which substantiate their comments?

Breakfast and daytime TV show nonentity talking heads from the south of England who’ve never been further north than Walthamstow, radio broadcasters, contenders in tedious convoluted snail’s pace races to become Prime Minister, children’s book writers, ‘celebrities’ who profess to love their precious union and have a sudden deep yearning passion for a country they’ve never been to but “always wanted to visit.” Where do they get their knowledge of Scottish affairs?

Where is the conclusive evidence which backs up their consistent public proclamations that the people of Scotland have no appetite for self-government, and their assertions that the spark has gone out of the Yes movement.
 
If you are a watcher and believer of polls (I personally don’t pay too much attention to them, the only poll I believe in is held at the ballot box) all the signs are at the independence juggernaut is climbing the gears, gathering pace, and is now consistently achieving the numbers in the various accepted ‘reputable’ polls to have dyed in the wool red, white and blue unionists pacing the drawing room floor in the wee small hours.

(Sir) John Curtice himself, the state’s pet psephologist, who is wheeled out regularly to tell us that Indy is making no ground amongst voters, has recently started to change his tune and was last seen heading for a flight to Bora Bora, in his St George and the Dragon leisure trunks, with his regal trinket in one hand and his abacus in the other.

Consider too the impact of the recent internal Tory government secret squirrel polling on the question of the Union, carried out by Ipsos Mori, the results of which, being secret squirrel, have not been released to the public, despite an FOI request being made by the SNP’s Tommy Sheppard, and significantly have not been leaked. (You can guarantee that they would have been if they had been favourable to retaining the precious broad shoulders).

The results of this polling exercise apparently have been so significant that they have prompted much whispering in dark corners, dissolving of bowels, and scurrying for high ground in Whitehall.

(Cue Darth Vader theme from Star Wars as a Yes campaigner on a rickshaw accompanies train loads of panicked unionist politicians through Glasgow city centre).

So it surely isn’t the polls that’s giving the talking heads their information.
 
Then we see that every other week, it seems, thousands of ordinary Scots of all ages, origins, creeds, colours and the eclectic mix of the communities which make Scotland what it is, gather in a town or city, and demonstrate their commitment to the right to assert the sovereign will of the people.

Only a few days ago, in the seaside town of Ayr, many thousands turned up, way over the expected turnout, to do that very thing, in sharp contrast to the sinister hate-filled outdated (by about three hundred years) unionist marches seen across the Central Belt in the month of July.

These demonstrations of the positive will of the people of Scotland to govern themselves is growing, gathering pace and numbers exponentially as those in London in power dig themselves deeper into a right-wing isolationist mire and insult the democratic decisions made by Scotland’s voters by telling them they can’t have what they have democratically decided they will have.

When you look at footage of these celebrations, these coming together occasions, the diversity, the good humour and camaraderie on show, the determination to endure, and to win, you can’t help but think that independence is somehow inevitable.

So it isn’t these gatherings, growing in popularity as they are, which gives those with media prominence the confidence to say assuredly that Scotland is as strongly unionist as Winston the bulldog’s farts.

So what can it be?

Oh, I’ve got it! It’s propaganda.
 
 

Get in the sea

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I tried watching it…nope, I can never listen to her speak whilst watching that contortive facial display of fake sincerity for more than a couple of minutes without wanting to switch it off. I tried reading the full text, nope, I ended up skim reading, trying to blot out the copious redundant Mayisms which her puerile speech contained (her speechwriting team will soon be as equally redundant).

It felt somewhat personal. Theresa May’s visit to Scotland to make a speech in a building which for me had been my place of work some years ago, a workplace which hosted my first serious career move back to my own country, a time I remember affectionately, a chance to come home, having been forced south from a Scotland decimated by industrial and manufacturing vandalism to find work, and gain career experience.

Fed up with unemployment and employment figure-massaging schemes where I, and many thousands like me, dug holes in roads, parks and fields and then filled them in again for slightly more welfare benefits than the broo, a lost generation created by the ruthless withering policies of Theresa May’s female predecessor, like many I had to leave home to ‘get on my bike’ as Thatcher’s henchman Norman Tebbit would have said.

Theresa May speaking in the former Stirling Council Municipal Buildings feels to me like an uninvited guest has gatecrashed a family party.

Nobody wanted her to be there. As welcome as the toothache, the welcoming committee of ordinary Scots of all ages ringing Corn Exchange Road made their thoughts plainly clear as her tinted windowed cavalcade passed up the hill to deposit her to the rear of the building.

Equally the Cannon and Ball act who are currently competing to replace her as the leader of the self-destructing disaster which is the Empire 2 Project, a job which will require the clearly unattainable ability to herd Fascist cats, are at a loss as to why she should intercede on the question of Union at this point,her having a foot firmly on the pavement outside 10 Downing Street.

It can only mean one thing. Once Theresa May is released to spend her days running free through her fields of hay she must be planning on butting in on Gordy Broon’s regular gig, the first time intervention. Perhaps they can join up (is there such a thing as a tandem skateboard?) He even got a mention! If ever there was a reason to get this independence show on the road sharpish avoiding listening to those two gibbering shyte must be high up there.

Turning to her speech itself, my goodness, ye really couldnae paint a red neck on the woman.According tae Theresa we should be so grateful that the broad shoulders of the Union has managed tae bail out the oil and gas sector in times of troubles.

What? Wow. Let that sink in. Breathe…in, out, in, let it out slowly……Yes, that will be the same broad shoulders born and grown in Scotland that have bailed out the rest of the UK for the best part of the last 50 years. The broad shoulders that have ‘subsidised’ England. The broad shoulders that if Scotland had decided to retain what was theirs, given access to information which was kept from them for many years by the London government,would have created a fund available to Scotland to maintain world class health and public services similar to Norway’s $2000 billion Sovereign Wealth Fund.

Apparently too Theresa reckons unionists can really take confidence in the fact that the Union still sits on rock solid foundations, and feels content that it will continue in all its preciousness as long as it has the support of the people. Ummm. She might want to check the polls, their momentum and the consistency of their results recently.

Even the British state’s pet pollster, recently knighted for being able to count bits of paper with the word No on them to a higher total than bits of paper with the word Yes, even when they are not, is starting to panic, and saying so publicly.

This after an internal Tory party poll revealed that 63% of members give not a toss about being in Union with Scotland and would quite happily ditch this arrangement if it meant they could disentangle themselves from those pesky foreigners of mainland Europe. Further to that the results of the Westminster government’s recent poll on the subject of Union haven’t been published or leaked. Why? You can draw your own conclusions.

There was laughable pish about how great the state broadcaster was at brainwashing the citizens of the UK, that’s what I took from it anyway, but the piece de resistance
was her accusation that the SNP, the party she tries hard to always refer to, incorrectly, as the Scottish ‘Nationalist’ Party, was one track on independence and not to be trusted. Can you believe that? From her?

Here’s a thing Theresa. If you want to go out with a real bang how’s about calling our bluff, a snap referendum In Scotland, going back to your commitment to the Union being there as long as the people wanted it, winner takes all. You are clearly confident in your own assertions.

Let’s have the following referendum question put to Scotland’s people. X marks the spot. We can do this with your successor instead if you wish. It’ll be the same result.

“Which of the following leaders do you trust the most……

Theresa May
Nicola Sturgeon “

Off you go, out to pasture, don’t trip on the lobby step on the way out. You’ll go out as you came in to power, completely lacking self-awareness and the lie of the land that surrounds you. As the headline in the National read the other day, your legacy will be the independence of Scotland.

Independence is normal.

One final insult

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In terms of her relationship with Scotland I will remember her as a whirling awkward clown-shoed Praying Mantis, shielded in an outer shell of ill-fitting Black Watch tartan, hoping, against hope, to blend in seamlessly amongst the natives. Long before she became a figure of fun, irritation and finally invisibility in Brussels, long before she disco-danced onto conference stages and woodenly around bemused local children on foreign trips, she visited us.
 
She was here to save the Union. She was here to show Scotland how much we were loved, how much we were respected, how intrinsic we were to the whole Greater England project. Previous Prime Minister’s may have deceived and manipulated us but she was here to put things right. We were so vital that we were her first official port call as Premier.
 
Grinding her teeth, she fidgeted for the photo-call in Bute House with the First Minister in front of a backdrop of draped Saltires. The only red, white and blue on view being the red of her shoes, the white of her pale coupon and the blue of her business suit. She told us then “I want to say something else to the people of Scotland too: the government I lead will always be on your side. Every decision we take, every policy we take forward, we will stand up for you, and your family; not the rich, the mighty or the powerful.”
 
Article 50 was not to be triggered, we were assured, until all of the components of the future trading relationship with the EU were ironed out to the satisfaction of all parties to the great and wondrous broad-shouldered precious Union.  Don’t worry Scotland, we were told,  nothing significant will take place on this divorce from the EU lark until we’ve secured the jobs and futures of your businesses, protected your workers and the vital EU citizens who contribute their expertise, skill and taxes to your essential services.
 
(We all know now what sort of a rabid dug’s breakfast the various half-prepared and unqualified UK negotiation teams have made of their discussions with the EU since then, and  how Mike Russell, the Scottish Government Minister tasked with trying to make some sort of sense of Brexit and protecting Scotland’s interests, found out that Article 50 had been triggered from the TV news. Theresa May, that self-anointed guardian of all things Scottish, and her government in London having  ‘forgot’ to tell anybody from the democratically elected government of Scotland that they had taken such a step).
 
She promised to listen to us, to take on board anything that Scotland’s representatives would wish to contribute, ideas which may ameliorate the withering impacts of Brexit on Scotland’s, and the UK in general’s, economy would be considered.
 
(The Scottish Government document ‘Scotland’s Place in Europe’ which offered options to assist and buffer economically both Scotland and the rUK was dismissed out of hand, hard copies of which we can only presume were cut into squares and have adorned the waters closets of Whitehall since the paper was submitted, apart from one copy, which is balancing one of the legs on the Secretary of State Against Scotland’s office desk in his new Edinburgh Hub.

A joint consultative group which was apparently set up to discuss a united way forward turned out to be a bit of sham when neither party would budge from their respective stances. Mike Russell  seeking Scottish involvement, and the various mix of Tory nae’er-dae-wells, grandees, Empire 2 fetishists, dodgy website watchers and career-civil servants who have been involved on the UK government side repelling any such involvement, the committee having only been put in place so that Westminster representatives and their tame Viceroy of Joy could tell the BBC that they were making laboured progress because the vile separatists only have a one track mind).
 
She made two or three sudden cloak-and-dagger visits to her beloved Scotland, around election campaigning time, sometimes to speak to the usual contrived set –up Tory politician fodder whilst visiting the ‘Scotch’, standing on a rostrum in from of an inane sign which says something like “Strong and Secure” or “forward for Britain” in a secure room filled with nervous looking employees of a company from  the financial sector, and bizarrely on one occasion during canvassing for her disastrous snap election, by corralling a village load of worthies in a scout hut in the middle of a forest so that her and Rowdy Ruth Davidson could  lambast them about that great strength and security that the Prime Minister was clearly not demonstrating.

Things got a bit out of control though when she tried knocking on a few doors of the cottages that these poor unfortunate folk lived in, for the benefit of the state broadcaster’s camera’s and Jackie Burd, to find she wasn’t getting many folk in, they were still making their way back from the scout hut! Clearly a stateswomen comfortable mingling with the people! Compare and contrast that with our own First Minister, and there is only one clear winner.
 
At the dispatch box she has snarled, screwed up her face in wasp-chewing anger, grimaced (or perhaps it was wind), did that weird shaking her shoulders impression of Dennis Healey thing that she does, tried to humiliate, undermine, dog-whistled her pack of right-wing hyenas and Scottish Tory sycophants, linesmen and touchy feely-ers into a frenzy, and repeatedly evaded questioning from the members of parliament democratically elected by the people of Scotland  to protect them from the excesses of being governed by a government from another country. She had the brass neck the other day to tell Ian Blackford that his job was to ask her questions about the running of her government, when quizzed by him about her views on the Bullingdon Blaggard that is potentially about to replace her.  Blackford missed the chance to reply that what would be the point of that, as she never answers the question asked.

Her robotic response to all things political in Scotland is to repeat ad nauseam that remaining in the UK is the settled will of the people of Scotland, therefore the SNP don’t speak for Scotland (even though democratically they do, they really do).
 
Now, now as she’s heading out the door to be remembered as one of the worst Prime Ministers ever to darken the Downing Street doorstep, an individual known for her soullessness, her lack of compassion, her inability to communicate without the aid of an autocue in front of her displaying a one line asinine headline she can repeat over and over again, a figure whom history will record as being the Prime Minister who never actually achieved anything of distinction as a personal legacy, other than holding the line of protecting her party at all costs no matter what price to her country, and the other countries her government rules from London, is heading for Scotland again, as one of her last acts in power.

This time, apparently, she’s coming to announce a review of UK government departments to make sure that they work in the best interests of devolution, totally maverick, totally separate to the agendas of the two feuding slaverers who are vying for her job, totally without consultation with the Scottish Government and totally lacking in responsibility, seeing as she won’t be in power when such a review takes place. She is doing this for only for one reason.
 
Soon, in the wee small oors of the morning, as she sits in her rocking chair by the fire, after a hard day running through fields of wheat and helping her man count how much money he’s keeping in his various hedges, she can say to all who would ask, in her self-delusion, that she did what she could to save her precious broad-shouldered pooling and sharing Union. 

It wasn’t her fault, she’ll say, that Scotland baulked at extremism and reclaimed its rightful future as a progressive self-governing European nation. Like David Cameron before her, who opened up the Pandora’s box of delights which is the coming far-right English Brexit, she may well have a few nights coming to her where she is still very much awake in the wee small oors.
 
Run Scotland, run fast and don’t look back.
 

Independence is normal.

There’s been an intervention, yet again

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Fresh from a totally unexpected two day ban from posting to any Facebook groups, a new experience for me (for what reason I do not know, and I couldnae find any mechanism to find oot why) I’m back at the keyboard once more.

I can only imagine it might have been somebody reporting me because they didn’t like the expression on Ruth Davidson’s physiog in the photograph that accompanied my recent post ‘Union? What Union?’ where she looks like she’s swallowed a wasp which had been feeding on a spilled bottle of ex-lax.

Anyway, hey-ho, moving on I see we’ve had yet another intervention from the son of the manse, his first ever intervention on the question of sovereignty, again, during a general rant to the Fabian Society about the complete balls up the UK is in at the moment, partly caused by him and his new Labour trough snufflers.

Once again Gordy Brown has demonstrated how entirely comfortable he is speaking untruths , as he strutted about a room full of carefully picked audience members, wandering backwards and forwards in that kind of James Brown on industrial strength Horlicks thing he does.

Tut, tut, Gordy ye’ll have the beadle pleading for yer salvation tae the Meenister after your latest journey into mis-informative mendacity.

“Oh, woe is us” says Gordy, calling down the demons, “the nationalists are going for a ‘hard’ extreme Independence!”

Eh? What does that mean? There is no such thing as a hard extreme Independence. You are either governed by somebody else, as Scotland is, or you are independent, full stop. There are no shades, textures or degrees of firmness involved, it is one or the other.

Introducing the words hard and extreme to a discussion about independence is a fair bit cynical, in fact it’s as fly as the actions of a Barlinnie Jailer, from a man who let’s not forget despicably told the parents of Scottish children with serious illnesses, like cancer, in 2014 that if they voted Yes they wouldn’t be able access the care of the marvellous Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital (before the management of that fantastic health facility told him publicly to stop scaremongering, that he was talking a load of shite and that seriously ill Scottish children would always be treated there). As an aside the place in its early days was partly maintained due to the financial contributions of Scottish author JM Barrie.

Gordy was trying to link this fictitious ‘hard’ extreme Independence with what we wish was fictitious ‘hard’ extreme Brexit in the minds of the many whose only knowledge and interest in politics is as a passing flick of a channel on the tv listings heading towards whatever Great British skydiving on ice ballroom dancing bake-off whilst chewing a kangaroo’s infected paw nail show happens to be on at the time. Very feckin sneaky Gordon.

As if to compound this exercise in being a flyman, the Broonster then decides tae come right out and tell an honest tae goodness straight up n doon fib, a lie, a tall tale, a falsehood, a big steaming jobby pile of deceit.

“Oh woe” says Gordy once more, only two steps in front of the forked lightning from heaven and the burny fire, “The nationalists as part of their hard extreme Independence want to take Scotland out of the UK Customs Union and the single market”.

What a complete pile of nonsense. If Scotland returned to being an independent country tomorrow absolutely nothing would change in regards to its trading relationship with England. Nothing.

Any rationalisation, amendment, alteration or modification to any trade rules between Scotland and England would be as equally disastrous for England as it would be for Scotland. In fact disentangling trading partnerships which have been built over many decades would tie up a legion of business lawyers for years, making Brexit’s complications look like a Rubik’s cube where you can take the coloured stickers off and rearrange them in the right order. It simply would not happen.

If and when an independent Scotland successfully takes it place as a member of the European Union, whatever ends up being the end result of the protection of Ireland’s trading borders, which the EU will ultimately decide, not Empire 2 (The cheaply made straight to video sequel) will apply.

It’s back to the sleeping bag in the manse cleaning cupboard for you Gordy, behind the mop and the ironing board. Until the next very first intervention……

Along comes yet another patronising Westminster politician

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My goodness did it no’ just warm the cockles of your heart tae see Jock McHunt grace Scotland with his presence?

Following his inappropriate reference to Culloden the other week, a gaff both in context and pronunciation, over the weekend he chose to trudge the well-worn path of English politicians seeking to establish some sort of faux bona fides link to Scotland, the photo shoot with a fish supper in one hand and a can of the Sunday morning cure in the other.

We’ve never seen that stunt before eh, nah, apart from the several hundred other times we’ve been subjected to photographs and news items on Mis-Reporting Scotland of politicians from another country, (and those like Rowdy Ruth Davidson and The Viceroy of Joy) blowing bagpipes, consuming a single fish, patting a snottery-nosed Highland coo, sampling a wee malt with a distillery owner ten minutes away from the honours list, munching a Tunnocks product and wearing the odd, and I mean odd, kilt.

Oh, and begod, McHunt has got a Scottish auntie too! The deal is sealed.

Och well that’s it then. We’ve been charmed and foiled again for another ten years or so. They’ve beaten us once more, sending us back to our crumbling but n bens. Cloth caps should now be doffed at any passing cretin with a posh accent.

Put away those Yes badges, those saltires, get the canvassing shoes back in the cupboard, no in fact take them back oot, you’ll need them tae walk tae the tawtie fields after Brexit, shut down your alternative media options and get back tae watching Auntie Beeb and Sunday political shows focused entirely on the politics of another country, get yerself immersed in Piers Morgan wae yer cereal, get as far away as you possibly can from being the embodiment of an uppity Jock and sit down and have a nice cup of tea and an Empire Biscuit.

Clearly the British state continues to have so little respect for the people of Scotland that their contempt has them believing that we as a nation have the memory and attention spans of Bob the Goldfish.

Up with it we shall not put. Stop treating us as if we are Russ Abbott’s teeth-grindingly patronising caricature of Scotland, stop thinking that any of this transient fake Sweaty Sock charm offensive nonsense you subject us to is anything other than actually offensive to the majority of the people of your neighbouring country, and only really impresses those sad individuals who don’t recognise that their own country is a country, preferring to mock their own culture in favour of another.

Get on with your journey to a mythical never ending dream of returned Empire and a right-Wing Utopia, and get out the feckin way whilst we take our country back first, before you wreck yours.

Oh, and yer chips are cauld.

Union? What Union?

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Well that was a turn up for the books, or perhaps not. The news that a YouGov survey conducted earlier in June has indicated that 63% of Tory members would back carrying on with the cliff jumping Brexit even if came down to Scotland regaining its independence as a consequence is noteworthy, in several ways.
 
Firstly it comes as a massive size 12 tackety-booted rattle to the swinging bits of the previously placid Highland bull that Rowdy Ruth Davidson likes to climb aboard when her media advisors are looking for a photo of her (photos perhaps not so much needed now as the poor beast roars, bucks and careers headlong into any stationary army tanks Ruth may have also brought with her for a candid snap or two).

No, not a good day for Ruth. All of that vote for me, Ruth Davidson, the saviour of the Union, I love the UK, if it was a soap I’d wash my neck with it, stuff all sounds a wee bit hollow now when you consider that the party she adores, the party that she is a branch subsidiary member of, one in which, with her heightened sense of self-promotion, she intends to enjoy a dazzling career, ending in ermine, don’t actually give a shyte about whether they are in a Union with Scotland or not, as long as they get their appearing-every-one-hundred-years-on-a-misty-night Britanniadoon mythical England back.
 
In Scotland we’ve known since the times when our two hundred and fifty odd year alliance with France ended, through the regal, religious and Cromwellian jiggery pokery of the next  hundred and fifty years, then the time of the despicable knobbled nobles being chased through the streets of Edinburgh after signing away Scotland’s parliament, that actually we don’t exist in the minds of some from the larger population in the country over our southern border.

We’ve all met them, on holiday, socially, by chance. You know the kind. “Where are you from?” they’ll say. “I’m Scottish” you will reply. “Ah, I’m from England too” they’ll say benignly. Any further pointing out on your behalf that Scotland is in fact distinctly and clearly not England is met by either a blank look or an expression which suggests you’ve got a rhinoceros horn growing out of the middle of your forehead.
 
For these people the UK, the Union, Great Britain, whatever you want to call it, is England. There are no partnerships, treaties, mutual arrangements, the only entity that exists to them, which is “precious’ is England. They simply do not recognise that there is a difference. We have no significance.
 
It is ironic that the huge negative propaganda confidence trick that has been going on now in a continuing spinning rotation for many years, ramping up in this century to try and counter the rise in Scottish self-awareness as a nation, may well be helping to facilitate the speeding-up of the inevitable end of the political union between Scotland and England.  
 
Stuck in this massive Brexit fantasy of a return to the days of John Company, Victoria the Empress of India (Charlie the Emperor of the Isle of Wight), Typhus, and Peter O’Toole astride a camel wearing light blue contact lenses and brandishing a big curved sword,  they’ve fallen for the Daily Hate Mail, Depress et al’s fallacious lines about Scotland being subsidy junkies, junkie junkies, and a burden, on England.

They’ve laughed like drains as our parliamentarians are booed, hooted at, subjected to wolf-whistles, drowned out, and ignored in parliament. They’ve near had a self-combusting orgasm at the likes of the words of a female Tory politician suggesting that a modern day version of the Clearances would be the proper answer to the West Lothian Question, and now, after all these years, it’s starting to work in our favour, not theirs. Who would have thunk it.
 
So Ruth, it’s beginning to look like you and your band of misfits, bigots, slippery linesmen and Ross Thomson, are pretty much on your own when it comes to the Prrrrreeeesssshhhiisss Union. Mind you there’s always the Ludge, you’ll look good in a sash.