I grew up in a era when myself and most of my schoolmates spent our early working life standing leaning on shovels in groups in dreary windy parks or on roadsides, like prison work gangs in America, in all weathers, dressed in manpower services commission provided bright yellow wet weather gear, digging holes where we were told to, and filling them in again, for a wee bit extra every fortnight on our broo money.
So inconsequential were we that one of our assignments involved a week emptying a dusty basement of books in the local library to allow remedial work to be done. We found out on the last day, as three guys in white protective suits and masks came in beside us, that the remedial work was to start removing asbestos.
This was a period where the industrial and manufacturing base of Scotland had been virtually wiped out by the policies of the British government and its leader, now hailed in revisionist history as some sort of saviour of the country, a time when the numbers were fudged, where we, the unemployment were wished away, to disappear, worthless.
Many friendships were cemented during that time. We had a laugh, we had to. Years later I can say that friends and workmates from those manpower teams have gone on to become successful business people, first class highly rated tradespeople, advisors to parliament, heads of government agencies, project managers of major engineering projects around the world, medical professionals, etc despite this start, but it wasn’t easy for any of them.
The views which I formed growing up in Scotland, and in the thirty odd years since those days are fairly simple, open, honest and mean no harm to anybody else.
I want my country to be governed by the people who live there, not by a government from another country that sees my country as a resource to use for its own benefits, not ours.
I wholeheartedly trust that the people of my country, whether they were born there or choose to be Scottish, have an abundance of skills, expertise and the intellectual capacity to govern a small thriving successful Northern European nation, utilising its assets and resources for the benefit of all of its citizens.
I do not, repeat, do not want my grandchildren to ever be in a situation where they are an unwanted statistic, considered worthless and on the scrap heap before they’ve even had a chance in life.
As a result of holding these, what I think are perfectly reasonable, views, the mainstream British media and those who follow unionist political parties would consider me a weird sinister cybernat cultist. A worshipper at the altar of the evil Sturgeon and Salmond. Somebody to be suspicious of in all things. I’m that dreaded nasty word, a nationalist.
I don’t spend a lot of time away from writing this blog discussing politics with others but it strikes me as amazing how blinkered and uninformed the general public in Scotland are about exactly what nationalism is, and where it is to be found.
In their defence the state media and their print friends feed them the nonsense which creates a serious misapprehension on this subject, but for example look at the events of the last 24 hours.
A woman in London has had a baby. Mother and baby are both well. Good stuff. Glad to hear it. I hope the wee fella thrives and grows up to be a kind caring person
I am not a monarchist. I do not believe that anyone by right of birth is entitled to rule over me. I am no one’s subject, apart from perhaps my wee granddaughters when they insist that my shoulders are the golden carriage transporting them to the ball, before turning into a pumpkin at midnight.
I bear the British royal family no malice. They are human beings. I don’t hate anyone. They breathe, eat, sleep, laugh, cry and defecate just like the rest of us.
What surrounds them though is real nationalism, a stoked up cult of veneration and sycophancy which maintains and renews, each generation, a system which only ever benefits a small select group and penalises everybody else, including the mug punters that get hypnotised into the hero worship of people of immense privilege and wealth they’ve never met, whom they will never meet, who have nothing in common with them, and want nothing to do with them.
There are extremes. There is something deeply troubling about grown adults wandering around wrapped in Union flag suits, sleeping in the street outside a hospital voluntarily for a fortnight, and cuddling and kissing dolls of small children. These troubled, and being kind ‘ vulnerable’ folk are fed cult worship nonsense by a media intertwined in the maintenance of the establishment.
I no longer can see, if I ever could, a difference between the BBC and the British government, they are simply both arms of the same organisation.
Continual unremitting reportage of British (for British read English state) exceptionalism, pomp and ceremony, tradition, militarism and flags by the bucketload is nationalism, not patriotism, nationalism, and not the good kind.
The problem is that so many are taken in by this nonsense. Brexit is partially a consequence of it.
The papers are just as bad. The Sum headline accompanying the birth of the new wean reads ” Cry for Mummy, England and St George.” They’ll be running around dressed as crusaders next, and we’re not even at the upcoming wedding yet.
Yet it is us who are the nasty nationalists, because we don’t conform to their view of their country, not ours. Go figure.
Somebody get us out of this please. Scotland will be so much better off once it returns to its rightful independent state.