When Hell freezes over

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There is delusional and then there is just plain bonkers. News that deputy heid yin of the British Conservative and Unionist Party in their distant but lucrative province of Scotland, Jackson Carloan, reckons that Ruth Davidson is ‘likely’ to be Scotland’s next first minister clearly indicates that the man needs to find himself a non-hermetically sealed cupboard (for we mean no harm to the afflicted) in a quiet corner of a very quiet house in an equally quiet street to go and have a nice wee quiet lie down in. The plot he’s clearly lost.
 
Yes, we, attuned to the gold fish bowl of Scottish political life, know that we find ourselves steeped on a daily basis in a great big skittery toilet bowl of unionist propaganda, propaganda which for years, up until relatively recently, used to make many Scots who were starting to wisen up to the realities of ‘pooling and sharing’ in ‘our precious union’ give up, say this is all too hard, and turn over the channel to be zombified by three hours of Great British cake decorating on ice whilst exploring country houses of the Home Counties and eating the shrunken teste of an unfortunate Kangaroo from the colonies. We’ve even paid for a licence to be subjected to it! But this, this is a spin too far.
 
The political party which Ruth Davidson has represented, and will again once she returns to the political arena, have ravaged Scotland. It has torn the life out of many communities. The results of its actions in the latter quarter of the 20th century, its policies, its experiments, its vendettas, all are still prevalent today in Scotland. The decimation of industry and manufacturing, the hardship, the misery, the untold damage on the physical and mental health of thousands of Scots, the planned poverty, the foodbanks, the asset stripping, the making of a fast buck, the diversion of capital funding to feed the needs of the city state, all are directly attributable to them.
 
That same political party are about to cause further untold economic, social and cultural damage by completely ignoring the democratic will of the people of Scotland, 62% of whom voted for their country to remain as a member of the European Union, a privilege we were advised by Unionists we would lose if we voted for self-government in 2014.  We don’t matter. They can tell us anything they like, there are no consequences.
 
You can doctor as many TV studio audiences in post-industrial areas of Scotland with clusters of right-wing heid-bangers as you like, trying to falsely portray a semblance of popularity (Michael Forsyth being cheered in Motherwell is about as clear a demonstration of that as you are ever likely to see). You can, in extremely unusual times, (post Indy and Brexit referendums) convince some of a certain ilk to vote for the likes of the imbecilic Ross Thomson and the rest of the ProudScotbut Tory cheerleading band at Westminster by deploying a campaign based on a binary Yes/No to a self-governing Scotland, but never, ever, ever will Ruth Davidson be the first minister of a devolved parliament of Scotland, not even in coalition, not even in her dreams.
 
 

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England expects

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“Dashed inconvenient this is Speed. My father didn’t splash out the family loot on my commission into the navy for this damned lark. He’d spin in his box, the guvnor, if he knew!” 

Lt Commander Jeremy Speedicut-Hindmarsh-Toalyfart turned towards his companion, Commander Harry Brexitman (RN MBE MM, and as a teenager many years before a former contestant styled as a yuppie on Blind Date), and concurred.

“I agree Brex. This should never have happened. The admiralty should never have put you in this position. How can you possibly convert a Thames pleasure craft into a vessel capable of carrying a squadron of Eurofighters up into the mouth of the Yangtze River to fly the flag and carry out forward area training sorties over Hunan Province? It can’t be done. We’d need to strip the DJ’S sound system out and the mirrored dance floor just to cobble together a makeshift flight deck, and what about the mounted cannons, where are they going to fit?”
 
“Stop calling them Eurofighters Speed, it’s not a thing these days. I was reading a confidential Defence report the other day prepared by that idiot politico with the whining voice, Williamson, that says we are rebranding all of our fighter jets as Super Spitfires.

Anyway, I’m writing to the admiral of the fleet to express my concern that this new mission would take me away from my primary duty of the last year since March 2019. The daily flotilla of sailing boats, barges and paddle steamers evacuating sunburned ‘expats’ along with their bottles of HP sauce, flip flops and teabags off the hostile beaches of the Costa del Sol needs me to continue as their convoy commander, otherwise they may lose the Dunkirk spirit. They must get through.”
 
Face flushing with pride Toalyfart stood solidly to attention, his backbone ramrod straight before his superior officer. With a plucky grin on his ninth generation Eton College face he exclaimed “You must admit old chap we’re in exciting times, England is back!”

‘Nae mair, nae mair’

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Dear goodness. There it is, there it is exactly, Brexit in the shell of a nut.

The speech by Tory Defence Secretary Gavvie Williamson CBE (the former fireplace salesman who took over after Tory Central HQ discovered that Sir Michael Fallon was a bit touchy feely and also deeply traumatised after Bernard Ponsonby asked him to answer a straight question about defence shipbuilding contracts with a straight answer) making a speech at the Royal United Services Institute yesterday really gave us the insight into what we all already suspected was the truth about Greater Great Grrr Britain’s divorce from the EU.

It’s a last desperate attempt by a former Imperial power, whose chickens have all come home to roost as they inevitably would eventually, to try and still appear relevant in a world that increasingly finds them irrelevant. Kind of pathetic really, and the bold Gavvie has helped confirm it.
 
Who writes these Tory government speeches, Alf Garnett’s grandson? It’s frightening stuff. It’s Raleigh, it’s Marlborough, It’s Nelson, It’s Haig, It’s good old Monty, It’s Bomber Harris, It’s plucky steadfast Winnie, it’s boak inducing, it really is.

Williamson, who has one of those voices that engender that feeling of teeth grinding and hairs standing up on the back of your neck when someone runs a nail down the side of a corrugated shed, tells us, in that fake sincere rhythmic nonsense speak, whilst his head meanders from side to side, a style that he seems to share with his robotic leader, that “Brexit has brought us to a great moment in our history. A moment when we must strengthen our global presence (by cutting ourselves off from being a member of the biggest free trading bloc in the world), enhance our lethality and increase our mass.”
 
What exactly does he mean? The Oxford Living Dictionaries definition of the word ‘Lethality’ is as follows “The capacity to cause death or serious harm or damage”.

Therefore Gavvie, Alf’s grandson, the Disco Dancing Diva of Downing Street, the  Churchill-channelling Johnson, and the host of hooray numpties of the Whitehall Brexiteer drinking and cigar club , are mad keen, in fact positively slavering, at the prospects of enhancing Britain’s ability to kill human beings for profit and the glory of the old school tie, what.

Gavvie goes on to tell us with an element of self-delusion that “We (Britain) should be the nation that people can turn to when the world needs leadership,”

I think he’ll find achieving that aim a bit of a problem seeing as generally in the past British ‘leadership’ was achieved by force on whatever part of the world the British state felt at the time could be used to best serve their purposes. The old question ‘Why doesnt the sun ever set over the British Empire? (originally referring to the wide ranging size of the lands once under Imperial power)and the response ‘Because you can’t trust the bastards in the dark’ comes to mind, once bitten etc.
 
Really folks, these nutters are living in a past where a quarter of the world didn’t spend decades painfully extricating themselves from a global menace who had spent long years asset stripping  their countries and shipping it all back to country houses in the Home Counties, a past where the Suez Crisis never existed, a past where the post-war miracle of the NHS and the welfare state didn’t happen, a past where millions around the globe suffered in the name of “bringing British civilisation to the world”.
 
Well I tell you what, that isnae Scotland’s future. It’s the 21st century. We are getting out of this. It’s time to launch the lifeboat. There’s a phrase in a song written by Hamish Henderson invoking the spirit of John Maclean that sums it up best. “Nae mair, nae mair’.
 
Indeed, nae mair.

Up to the knees in propaganda

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I dunno what’s worse, the BBC ‘fixing’ the audiences of Question Time in Scotland, or the BBC expecting its viewing audience no’ tae notice that they ‘fix’ the audiences of Question Time in Scotland.

I thought the programme a while back  from Dundee could not be beaten for demonstrable contrived heavily weighted and biased political theatre (clearly I and many others hadn’t  the first clue that Dundee was actually a strong Tory hotbed, belying its voting record, so much so that nobody there actually seemed to speak with a recognisably Dundonian accent, who knew?) but last night’s effort from Motherwell took the digestive and a whole packet of jammy dodgers.
 
Clearly the fine people of the former steel town have forgiven ex-Tory poster boy and Thatcher acolyte, sook and lickspittle Michael Forsyth (for our younger readers he was to Margaret Thatcher what Ross Thomson, prior to his seven too many gin and tonics this week, was to Boris Johnson’s inflated ego, only more so, if that is possible). Ach it was only a couple of big chimneys, some factories and the odd ruined life here and there, let bygones be bygones eh. Very magnanimous of them, particularly too considering, like Dundee, their voting record.
 
Then there was the revolving, revolting, re-appearance in the audience of the wandering Orangeman and failed UKIP politician Billy McBilly. Incredible! The man has a season ticket for this show. There are over five million people in Scotland yet this geezer has been on Question Time more times than the SNP in the last couple of years, and gets to ask a question on every occasion, well no’ so much a question more an angry ranting statement, at the end of which you can almost sense his colonic rage at not being able to sign off with the phrase “No Surrender”. For a bit of variety he’s bringing his drum the next time.
 
The BBC are getting to the point now where they are not even trying to mask their British nationalist propaganda. It’s pretty desperate stuff.
 
Thankfully more of our fellow Scots are getting wise to this nonsense . Seriously, if you can’t see it, you’re not looking with your eyes or listening with your ears, you’re walking around in a cosy ‘Great British’ daze.
 
 

Where are you?

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Theresa May has worn out three pairs of her very best hiking comfy brogues stravaging backwards and forwards tae Brussels, and is now heading over to Norn Irn to make a speech to a room full of unionist businessmen staunchly determined that they shouldn’t have even the slightest possibility of the possibility of the opportune opportunity of their businesses obtaining a competitive advantage over other parts of the ‘great family of nations’ (nutters).

Meanwhile the First Minister of our own dear beloved land is gallivanting all over North America trying to convince the top recipient nation on the list for exports from Scotland (to the tune of about five and a half billion squids every year) no’ tae worry too much come Brexit because we’re still going to distil the water of life in its many brand names, we’ll still be producing haggis in tins, our butchers will still make square sausage and black pudding, we’ll still be weaving the tartan, making shortbread, selling golf jumpers, and yes, we’ll still be experimenting wae the sugar levels in our other national drink.

However, I wonder thus, where is Mundell?
 
The Viceroy of Joy, the yes man to beat all yes men (with a small y of course) an individual who, if he was to waken with a start from sudden unconsciousness in a bygone age, after inadvertently touching a big mossy dod of standing stone in an ancient circle in the fog, would find himself in the front row of a bunch of sprinting wasters happy to accept bribes, debt clearance and promises of land and status, in exchange for being chased through the streets of Edinburgh by a rabble of extremely miffed Leith residents shouting “Somebody grab that quill, don’t let them sign anything!’  is conspicuous by his silence. Has he got the cauld maybe?
 
Seen up until recently on a regular basis with a microphone thrust under his nose outside Westminster acting in his subsidiary role of backing up every single thing that comes out of Theresa May’s mouth, including the occasional burp, the ‘ProudScot’ politician with the backbone of playdough, happy, and comfortable, to contradict himself on a consistent basis, back-flipping backwards and forwards to his master’s voice, must be getting a bit stir crazy, kicking his heels. Surely there must be a foreign trade visit to Vanuatu, Fiji or Mauritius in the pipeline somewhere?
 
Like Gordy Broon , anxious to intercede in the constitutional debate for the very first time he’s ever interceded, every single teeth-grinding time, to give us the benefit of his wisdom, I feel we need, on his usual cyclical basis, the heart, and gut, wrenching appeal from Davey, currently missing,  from somewhere far far away, in front of an audience who have no idea what he’s talking about, or why, to put out of our minds thoughts of disloyalty to our benevolent senior sibling in our ecstatically happy ‘family of nations’.  

Davey has a standard speech we all know and love, nobody wants a referendum, nobody wants independence, nobody wants divisiveness, Nicola Sturgeon just wants to use Brexit as an excuse for separation, stop it, you are putting my peerage in danger.  I miss him.
 
Come back soon Davey, we need you. You are one of the best recruits for the cause of an independent Scotland around. A real advert for our cause.