I love the expression “Fit of pique”. Originally translated from natural Doric as “vocal celebration of successful voyeuristic opportunism”, the cliché has developed over the centuries into two modern day meanings: Either the Mouther is defining an action delivered with the temporary mental imbalance of a stroppy rage, or they may be acknowledging the deftness of Catalan ball-thumping from towering central defence to find the very spot where a diminutive midfield General is poised to collect, and thenceforth tippy-tap the fitba’ onwards, at pace, to a diminutive marauding attacker.
Most of my life-changing events were created and managed in fits of pique: From leaving the family nest, to falling in and out of love and back in again, to forming and dismantling bands, to leaving the Music Industry completely, to selling my soul to Rod Petrie and The Hibernionians when the diamonds on the souls of every pair of football boots I have ever owned fell off into the liquidised abyss, to rediscovering the aural joy of united Airdrie ball-thumping from hopeful gangling central defence to within thirty yards of a midfielding gangrel critter who would’ve spilt the thing out for a shy anyhoo.
Recently I made another snap decision, and a big one. After over a quarter of a century I chucked my SNP membership oot with the brown-lidded bin for recycling.
I have a good reason behind ditching the card; there is sound personal wisdom in the dastardly deed. I joined up lang syne for three reasons: Firstly, a matter of a fit of pique with the brutally self-serving and omnipresent Red Millionaires’ party that once was a force for good; secondly, a new-found belief in the Scottish peoples’ collective smeddum, and thirdly, because the SNP gave me an opportunity to rid myself of the poisonous habit of nodding sagely to the bullshit politics of arrogant wankers in the united name of the cooperative weal.
Outwardly, I’ll conform to yer average angry Rock ‘n’ Roll rebel type and I’ll want to tear the dress from perceived authority wherever I find it. Inwardly, in dark lonely fits of pique, in cold damp lonely persevering despair, or in the contemplative tender warmth of the lonely fireside, I am my ain man again and my daft wee nut crafts unique un-crushable rebellion. Not the selfish insurgence of the cash-strapped Westminster backbencher, but true and honest anarchic plans of cataclysmic one-way Armageddon. In the company of turkeys I am all things to everyone – other opinions are tedious shite and completely unwelcome intruders into my truth – so I’ll nod, stuffed fu’ o’ sage, and gobble down their gibbering giblets agreeing, or false-musing at the very least, to solicit escape. But in the companionship of induced isolation the schizophrenia that is in all of us urges and quells the passions of internal debate. The rights and wrongs of rights and wrongs are mulled and then compressed into searing bolts of parked-up lightning, ready to be used as a parting zap of liquid electric fire straight through some argumentative tosser’s eyeballs and deep into his fragile brain, if I could ever be arsed.
The SNP Holyrood Government has been a shining red star compared to the stinking piles of stagnant dung that were the previous Lib/Lab bland coalitions. Since 2007 the SNP have made things better while playing it safe for very obvious reasons, popularising popular policies and showing the Scottish peoples that we aren’t better or worse than anyone else. This has been a great plan and hopefully the last hundred years of the People’s Party telling us that we are SE England’s gimp has been erased from the minds of those who can forget. I sense that Scots are no longer accepting the Union bombast that we’re not as good as England but quite within our North British rights to look down our Kintyre nose at Wales and Northern Ireland with the hubris of the wingman.
In the nation’s long lifetime there have always been melancholic Scots who weren’t happy being Scottish. In the Tranterish world of historical black and white there are the unyielding patriots amongst us who fight and gnash in maintenance of personal pride and national honour, and in the polarised-psyche opposition there are the silent creeping scumbags who’d sell Scotland by the pound for a groat and their countryfolk for a Pritt Stick. It’s a world that doesn’t exist outside Twitter bang-statements, least one that I don’t loaf about in.
I loaf about on Planet Me. It’s a nice wee place to be. In it I breathe my own air, I put on a differently coloured top every day, and I choose what to dwell on and what to bypass. I wasn’t bred for The Rule, and if I stuck to one I’d be the shittiest wayward monk the world has ever seen. I joined the SNP to fight for independence for Scotland; a nation who breathes her own air, who puts on a differently coloured top every day, and who chooses what to dwell on and what to bypass.
Being the cantankerous foul bawbag that I am, I struggle to simply nod with earnest gusto. I don’t like conforming to any stereotype and I hate agreeing with something I disagree with, regardless of how petty the issue seems to be. I’d not only be a god-awful monk, I’d be a shit politician.
Ultimately I’m not comfortable with the SNP in government, though it is not the fault of the SNP that they are. The incompetency throughout the history of the cheating, lying, warmongering, gerrymandering, money-fiddling, self-serving egotistical wankers of the main Westminster parties is to blame. In a fair and honest world the Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democratic parties would be unelectable. Their chameleonism is their saviour and yet their downfall. The more they bow to the insatiable will of the middle-English Daily Mail, the further northwards they must try to relocate the Scottish border. In the last hundred years the Labour Party has tried valiantly to blend the working peoples of Manchester, Liverpool and The North with those south of the Arran to Skatie Shore divide, using poverty as their emulsifier to attempt to recreate a new Cymric Arthurian Utopia of disease and death, prostituting the collective arse for the scraps and waste from the humungous London refuse trucks. The cause of the poor sells well to the minorities: the poor and those in the middle class with a liberal conscience, but then the Labour movement inevitably solicited majority and turned itself into the cashcow for Tory misfits it has become. The doyen of every Labour “progression” of my lifetime would be as out of his depth on early Labour picket lines as George Lansbury would be sipping Pimms at Henley. Labour’s modern purpose is not equality for all, it is winning elections and the opportunities for political largesse another five years brings with it. It sates its thirst for power and glory with South Coast seawater and pollutes the Clyde with its salty nuclear sewage piped straight from Millbank’s septic tanks, leaving its Scotch agents to disinfect the filth as best they can.
I fear that in Holyrood majority government the SNP will eventually mirror Labour’s calamitous plunge from worthy to worthless. There are some cabinet ministers who already reek with the stench of ego and privilege, and some recent faux pas highlight the overconfidence that leads to blasé that leads to Blair that leads to pure cash-nourished contempt for humanity and decent society. While the Sturgeons, Whites, McKelvies, Cunninghams and MacAskills speak their own mind I’m a-listening, but when NATO, currency, monarchy, and other currently irrelevant issues are deemed necessary I pathetically shut my eyes to stop the bleeding. I haven’t a strong enough neck to nod in mock support, and I reach the conclusion that my kidney must filter out the pish from the clean water and that feisty kidney cannot be bypassed by the will alone.
The collective responsibility of government is anti-human and thus carte-blanche support is impossible to earn and is never merited. An all-consuming end game like Independence requires specialised focus and it ain’t the place of a Government to be so philosophically narrow. I’ll buy all that for a dollar, but I don’t like it. I joined the SNP when it was a protest group hankering for political respectability, but now that it has earned that respectability it pisses me off. My priority is to help make Scotland a fair and generous welcoming green place where all social barriers are taboo (a place indeed the exact opposite of London) and not to have as a highlight the London press lauding Alex Salmond as the shrewdest political beastie on this island. The very thought of SNP inclusion into the poisonous UK political corps makes me ill.
Scotland needs to be independent to do what it should do for the people and to have even a modicum of international respect. Three hundred years of Union has made Scotland into one of the unhealthiest toothless places in Europe. The SNP needs to govern because the people have asked it to, and it’ll get my vote when there are no Greens about. I’ve discovered that I am not a government or government-in-waiting party political cratur, and I need to protest simply because protesting is what I do. I can’t fix things, but I can “HAW!” at injustice with the best of them from the sidelines. I hate supporting a government. It is horrible in its very nature. Sucking it in and smiling through angst is for professional party thespians alone in their specialist psychosis; collective responsibility is for those whose will can control their kidney, and control their fits of pique.
Listen here (Soundcloud will open in another window or tab)
I’ve mashed this Hendrix tribute together and used me couthy aul’ Korg M1 patch to create the background wash and the various weird sounds. Ian Kay’s smashed some crunching guitar chords and some licks.
The American missionary to Haiti you’ll hear is Bill Rudge website and his voice and testimony is used with his kind permission.
Jacques is played by an out-of-his-tits Mr Trowsers, and the song was recorded in The Zen Room.
The Haitian Rara performance was downloaded from the Prelinger Archives website
We’ve recorded live drums with Graham Kay in Cockfield on Wearside, but haven’t had the time to get them up on Cubase for a wee shifty yet.
I think this song works, but whether it’s taken any further forward I juist dinnae ken.
1 Hugh, called to be an apostle of Christus Linford by the will of God and our brother Sebastian.
2 To the church of Sport in Stratford and other places, to those sanctified in Christus Linford and called to celebrate the Union Flag.
3 Grace and peace to you from God our Father and Christus Linford.
4 Know thee throughout the lands that I have always wanted England to get stuffed at every sporting opportunity that I can remember. Further know thee, possibly based on esoteric ribbings received in two years schooling in a green, coal-underlayed Northumbrian idyll, Pearce and Battyfied FIFA World CupTM penalty misses were right good reasons to quaff pints, the relished relief being of Olympic-sized piddle comparison.
5 Know thee also that in my teeth-gnashed madness I usually, though not always, equate sporting Great Britain and its Americanized (sic) mutation, Team GBTM, as England with a circumspect couple of peripheries placated in patronising pomp.
6 Let it additionally be known that I am far-flung travelled in drained pursuit of sporting success with the SFATM Scotland football team, but again, in my lunacy, more of a Tartan Camp-follower than Infantry Trooper; being weary of woad and finding more solace in the company of the interested native than the bawbag tourist. Indeed, the fondest recalled of all of my journeys is a 3-0 Dutch master drubbing in the nether lands of an Amsterdam back-booschzer coffee schoppsch seen through TV glass darkly, rather than, say, the miraculous McFadden gift from Jinky Jehovah seen in brilliant live splendour from the concrete and plastic heights of Le Parc de Princes.
7 For those who have ears to hear, then hear: when I was a child, I spoke as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child. Witness thee now my deranged progress and my own personal Christus dichotomy: I wish you, the English, Northern Irish, Scottish, Welsh or Islander GB Olympians, Godspeed and success. Yeah! Ev’n at the fitba.
8 And for this transformation, this temporary Christus Linford-induced transmogrification from get stuffed – through nonchalance – to interest, I take thee back, verily, to Barcelona in the summer of 1992. The summer of the Jamaican giant: the celebrity drug-cheat who ran for England and Great Britain, the picnic lunchbox that became corpus Christus Linford.
9 At the set hour, the wee post-gig party in a Drumchapel terraced house came to a halt as man, woman and skank took to gazing at the telly and attached Video Cassette Recorder player. Linford was getting his oxygen fix and pumping his veins before crouching his works into the traps alongside the Namibian favourite Frankie Fredericks. John Walker, the great All-Black runner, was co-commentating with David Coleman and he took time-out to out-Colemanballise Coleman with his fabulous “Linford Christie must be thinking, at 32, can he emulate what Ottey just failed to do?” question. We watched, transfixed in stupor, as Linford exploded out of the box in clichéd ecstasy and horsed his way through the speedy field to claim gold with a triumphant snort at the line and Coleman screeching “IT’S LINFORD CHRISTIE” to the delight of everyone at the party.
10 I remember that delight and the feeling of national triumph. “Good old Linford!”, “He’s such a jolly good fellow!” and other Drumchapel celebratory chestnuts escaped our mouths twixt Red Stripe, Scampi-Fries and Schlitz. Rivals of green and orange took to back-patting and sharing jaggy points like Libertines, as we partied like sex-starved ancient Greek Olympians plunging into post-games conjugal sweat, as you did. Thankfully any murals depicting those events do not survive and a future Fiona Bruce, or marauding Lord Elgin, will be spared the debased memories that are forever smouldering on my front lobes.
11 So to bring me as up-to-date as someone stuck in 1979 could ever be, I’m listening to the wireless from Pacific Quay this morning and two stories took me back to The Drum of Christus Linford from the present of James Forrest or whoever.
12 The first was some wee Scottish 17 year-old’s swimming coach up to high-diving dough over his pupil’s success in getting to this summer’s Games. He said that the bairn’s been improving by more than three percent every competition he’s entered, and has put in four years of dedicated graft to get to where he is now.
13 I thought “Good on ye. Best of luck. I’ll be rooting for yer bairn wi’ the best o’ them. I might even watch it!”
14 The second was Jerome Valcke, the Secretary General of FIFATM saying that the SFATM should forget about their Team GBTM worries: forget about any possibility of a Team GBTM being used to take Scotland’s footballing Separation away.
15 My imaginings changed from speculating James Forrest as the anti-Christus, Auld Nick in shape o’ beast himsel’, to that of a wee happy boy, grafting hard, doing his pan in and looking for reward. Not financial, but spiritual, for who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way, no one knows the thoughts of James Forrest except the spirit of James Forrest.
16 The rewards of acceptance, the rewards of appreciation, and the rewards of recognition are the spiritual rewards: the altered look of acceptance or appreciation from a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, and the applause of a music fan, or music journalist in print, or of a cd buyer. They are the only rewards I have ever sought. Is anyone so different, not least an already rich boy?
17 To my muse: good luck to all Olympians of any hue. Sport is stagnant TV if ye don’t choose a favourite, and I’ll root for the underdog individuals and nations as always. I’ll naturally yell oot for the Scots taking part and representing the UKoGBaNI, the nation state l live in, whether I hope for a fairer and better and smaller one, or not. Good luck to the Islanders and the Northern Irish and the Welsh, but especially the English representing the same UKoGBaNI. Hosting an Olympics is an expensive honour, and although I’m only paying my taxes by default towards the colossal bill, I will cheer on your victories.
18 To win on home turf will be very special. When the flower of the UK’s bairns step on the podium to collect a wee metal disk I will have a wee tear in my eye: I will only slightly register God Save the Queen being parped o’er the PA, I will only mildly grue when the Union Flag is hoisted and St Andrew is set well behind St George and St Patrick again, to my shame, but I shall greet a mickle tiddler for the wee bairn from Shrewsbury, from Durham or from Southend-on-Sea, who’ll look out at the myriad of faces and say loudly through the mouth of love for their ears only “Mum and Dad! My fabulous, beautiful, supportive Mum and Dad – this is for you and for all of your sacrifices”.
19 The churches of Sport in the province of Muthill send you greetings. Connor Aquafontis and wee Presbytery greet you warmly in the Lord, and so does the church of Sport that meets at the Highlandman’s Park.
20 All the brothers and sisters here send you greetings. Greet one another with a shine of yer medal.
21 I, Hugh, write this greeting in my own hand.
22 If anyone does not love the bairns, let that person be cursed! Come, Lord!
23 The grace of the Lord Christus be with you.
24 My love to all of you in Linford Christie.
An Epistle to Rt Hon Douglas Alexander, A Self-Styled Internationalist after His Speech in Dundee
Politics is seeing, or choosing to see, things differently. There’s a lot in what Douglas Alexander said that I’d agree with, but I’ve got some quibbles: Dougie’s Scotland is a wee part of a bigger UK. The UK is Dougie’s country, it’s honourable, but in it Scotland is dependant: financially, politically and culturally. Dougie’s Scotland is made mute and has someone else’s words spoken to the world on her behalf. Dougie’s Scotland has no choice but to go to war at someone else’s command. To quantify a’ her ails, Dougie’s Scotland is a sick poverty-ridden incontinent class-ridden cancer-infested booze-quaffing sectarian-laced immigrant-hating intolerant subservient shell, with chic aspirations of a better place sometime in the future on the coattails of the Dinner Suit and in the shadow of the brim of a bowler hat.
My Scotland isn’t. My Scotland is paramount in every decision that my Scotland makes. My Scotland doesn’t wait for orders. My Scotland is fair and far more internationalist than ever the English Daily Mail class will allow the UK to be.
Dougie’s Internationalism is amoral and a Machiavellian trick. It is regulated by, and constrained within, his beloved border posts at Dover and Felixstowe and Hull: great muckle walls a thousand times higher than the walls of Jericho and they are trumpet-proof to their foundations; foundations made of arrogant aggregate and the driest caustic cement, mixed with the angriest of Home County limes.
And we who choose to live in Scotland, we who are not allowed to build walls or demolish them, we Scots immigrants who currently have no choice when children born in the world are dragged to Dungavel at dawn, shipped down to Smithfield like the traitor Wallace, then hung oot to dry before being drawn to export to the four quarters of the world. We are made silent.
I want to think, that post #indyref, the Berwickshire coast will have no walls or foundations, but a welcoming red carpet to take Scotland’s population to 15 million and make us the fastest growing, most exciting cosmopolitan international country in the world. But my thoughts are always scatty and un-linear so don’t expect me to further this argument, and anyway fret ye not o’er giant Scottish walls – the concrete mix of Dover is not readily available at Builders’ Merchants in Scotland so any construction will be eye-level at maximum height, and non-toxic.
But while we trust ourselves, to hide our shame, in Dougie’s Union, the Scottish outlook on the world is not our own, and the world’s view of Scotland is force-channelled along the M2 in Kent. All thanks to the Rt Hon D Alexander Esq and his London Poker Club of migrating birds: a noisy cackling bastardised rookery where Labour/Tory/LibDem/UKIP Internationalistes Avec Des Frontières can prune and delouse far from normality and decency. And far from repercussion.
Listen here (Soundcloud will open in another window or tab)
This is one of my favourite self-penned songs, although the song is a simple three chord alternating ascent and descent with just one sung verse and no chorus. All in all I think it took about two minutes to compose the song and another couple of days to orchestrate the competing melodies.
And Then She Whispered was written in a bedroom in Fergus Drive in Glasgow with a window overlooking a fabulous skyline and some neighbours. I liked to write standing up with a strapped acoustic guitar with a red light on in the room, and I would play and experiment for hours using the Glaswegian backdrop as a muse-incinerator if the musical or lyrical direction I was travelling was shite. The neighbours must have thought I was a weird perv gazing in to catch glancing love, but even if there was a bit o’ voyeuristic hochmagandy to be had I was too involved to see it.
The song was engineered by Eddie MacArthur at Stealth in Glasgow, and was mixed by Eddie and Ian Kay. I played guitar and sang, but the wonderful musicians who brought their magic to the production are as follows:
Ian Kay, Guitar
Joe Meechan, Bass and Piano
Andy Niven, Drums and Percussion
Laura Dunne, Vocals
Elmo MacDonald, Guitar
The lyrics are plain and simple and are about the electrical tension between two people. I was at the bar in Byres Road, ordering up a few beers beside a beautiful woman I had noticed out of the corner of my eye but didn’t recognise. She whispered my name and I burst like a water balloon:
And then she whispered
She gently called my name
And then she whispered
As she gently called my name
I turned to look
To see the beauty in her face
Her candle eyes
My utter fear so out of place
I’m twenty six years a card-carrying SNP member to the day, but I don’t know whether to feel proud and loyal, wise and worthy, Cybernatty and caustic, or juist auld and decrepit. In this long time I’ve had to manoeuvre round a guid few argumentative creatures, oh yes, and mony’s the scheme, in vain, has been laid to stop or scaur me on my travails and meanders up oot o’er the distant Cumnock Hills by those of my acquaintance with different views. There’s been a few canty toddles doon Loudon too though with people I’ve helped to examine their own thoughts in search of as close to truth as any of us gets, by loss of blood or want of breath. With my wily guile and handsome coupon, I am match for anyone. ”Wha daur meddle wi’ me?” I’ve asked myself more than once as I’m left standing at the bar, alone, with plenty of time and space to muse o’er drooth’s desire.
But if it is yer staff that keeps ye sicker on the hillside, it is yer membership card that steadies and separates (sorry Joan) ye from yer average Bruce Forsyth. My wee yellow card has been the level constant as I float higher or sink lower dependent on System Three waves; it’s been paper, cardboard and plastic in its time, but it’s been the only card for me since I was a sensible loon. There are many good reasons for not committing yourself to the collective responsibility of a political party, but camaraderie isn’t one, and because of this I’ve committed myself twice to a card: once to Labour for a few years, and lang syne to the SNP. I’ve got huge sympathies with Labour values and humble Labour people, but I just can’t buy into the obligatory angrily pro-Union bit. It is their Ochills’ hillfoot heel.
A *Fish and Chip’s £4.95 inc. Tea* type apostrophe-hell makes my greasy blood boil, but it is far more grammatically and morally offensive for The People’s Party to bastardise itself into The Peoples’ Party. Wake up ya dafties! This is The Scottish People’s Referendum whether ye like it or no’. You are making no bloody sense and you are speaking in tongues to those who have ears to hear but like it straight! Why are you anti-Indy? And don’t dare give me the stronger tethered / weekend a cart-horse dung! I mean, why, as a movement, are you against a people’s movement? Against another political party treading on yer red-ish star, nae borra, but who the feck decided that The People’s Party should be for or against Independence for Scotland? It wasn’t Kier ‘Dunblane Roundabout’ Hardie. It wasn’t any of the ither early socialist Fathers as far as eh ken. Who the hell did make that clinical decision, that stupid undemocratic insane decision that is force-fed down every Partyboy and Partygirl’s throat from birth, brainwashing the poor little mites into the very *Us Scots and Them Scots* syndrome that wanky pretend socialist internationalists abhor? As a counter, I well remember a *Scotland United Will Never Be Defeated* chant with Senator Geo Gallowayo trying to lead that shit mantra in Geo Square post 1992, but it was anti-Tory. Has anti/pro-Union ever gone to a Conference vote? Answers on the back of a hammer and sickle postcard please. (Note: For younger Labour readers the hammer and sickle was a symbol used to represent the unity of workers back long ago in the silly old days before New Labour. Editor)
I have to wonder when the first glimpse of a protracted debate from a clever Nationalist intelligencia first creeped oot from the aul’ style Tartan Tatties, because I missed it through drinking to excess. But that glimpse was noticed elsewhere though, a glimpse that gave Labour such a genuine fright that it germinated a scary seed in the professional politicians’ sozzled slumber. A dreamy seed that propagated a nightmare where the golden swill in the Westminster trough would decline because someone was welding a drain on the end of it; that glimpse that made them so fiercely and pathetically pro-Union to protect their hard won standing with the expense accounts, directorships, positions and titles that goes with MPdom, along with your speaking fees efter ye’ve chucked it. Was it 1973 or ’78 or ’92 or ’97 or only in 2007 that they happened to take the SNP seriously? I divn’t kna and I almost divn’t care. But happen it did.
All I’m sure of is that The People’s Party reasoning, if reason there is, against Independence for Scotland is nothing to do any any left-leaning cause. If you were vegetarian and lived in a town where meat-scoffers could force you to eat a sassage or twa, wouldn’t you prefer Veggie Village where yer local Asda aisles were fu’ o’ nuts and leafy delights? Thus, when I witness tearful Lefties mock-sobbing o’er any bleedin’ Right Wing victory in an election or simple debate, I wipe their tears gently with a horseshoe-loaded boxing glove and whisper “David Cameron sends his love and thanks” In Scotland we could have any government of any hue we like at any time if it was not for the Labour Party. And it would be the Labour Party in Scotland who would benefit most, and from their guidance and hmmm political brilliance the whole of Scotland would benefit too. So who in Labour would profit from Scotland remaining in the Union? Ed Millionaire and the Shadow Cabinet certainly, they love the numbers but pay the English electorate cost when the gloomy Shadow Cabinet is filled with shadowy Scots and that must help them to lose English votes.
But here’s my answer to my own question: these shadows are the ghouls in the Labour who benefit personally most from the Union. Where else could Douglas Alexander get paid well over £100K plus extras plus expenses plus an almost certain Lordship of Gleniffer Braes? Selling motors at Arnold Clark’s? Where else could Lord Foulkes come to national and fiscal prominence and be given air time for his unfettered ego?
Where else could Margaret Curran and her Scottish Office shadow cabinet reap in bales and bales of Bank of England bounty for doing feck all? Look at these names: Cathy Jamieson, Russell Brown, Gemma Doyle, Tom Greatrex, Ian Murray, Anne McGuire, Gregg McClymont, Fiona O’Donnell and William Bain. Have you heard a dicky bird from any since October 2011 when Mags trumpeted them as the new loud Westminster brass section who were going to see Scotland’s interests played over ClassicUKPoliticsFM?
Margaret Curran introduced her new Bravehearts on 10th October and parped that they would “do the right thing in standing up for Scotland”. Eh? Hello! Where are yooooooooooo (breath) ooooooo? I’ll tell ye where they are: in the morning they’re sitting on their arses plodding through a Scottish heehaw getting served up good honest English breakfasts with a tot o’ rum to keep ‘em quiet. It is as pathetic as it is unbelievable that these lazy sloths see themselves as standing up for Scotland, whereas the post afternoon nap truth is simple: in the evening they are gorging at Mrs Nero Curran’s couch feast snapping doon a grape or two with turtle beaks and getting fu’ on any posh fortified wine they can get, only standing up for ablutions. They are using silence to fight for the Union. Why, is there nothing to say?
Labour are anti-Independence because it does not suit the decision makers in the People’s Party to be for it and the ardent Labour voter actively derides Independence like a bairn copies his maw. The Labour professionals’ political mortgages are paid every month by the Union. Without the Union they are politically bankrupt, and morally their jobs and careers are made redundant. There’s the #indyref contradiction, but are Labour concerned by contradiction? Nope. Contradiction ‘R’ ‘Em. They feast on it like a pussycat on a deid fish, and they thrive on it. They love it and celebrate it with some Glasgow vs Liverpool poverty shite. It’s not Glasgow vs Liverpool at all you fraudsters, and if some lunatic near Anfield wants to take a sweetie oot a bairn’s mooth and post it to Anniesland I would have them jailed for at least 30 years.
Ach well, another shit rant finished. Any cat left listening?
“Eh juist another wee Jägermeister and milk please chief. Ane for yersel’? Oh just the wan then, I’m on my own. Yes, again thanks.”
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis and of Sid Waddell full is this Blog
Efter I papped mysel’ oot o’ Glaswegian Labour circles in a sympathetic rage over my Uncle Sammy’s dignity getting a completely unwarranted kicking for my bad behaviour, I neutered my own political proboscis and sat for a while on my bright red hands; them claws o’ mine still calloused and cut from rusty guitar strings and completely unnecessary Strathclyde Regional Council leafleting in Cathcart.
I’d just been to the SECC (I think, but my memory is pure pish) where the petals of the red rose scented the stifled Clyde-side air of another whopping Labour Lakeland-style landslide by 5 sets to nil over a shambolic tripartite Opposition; a triple opposition lobbed thegither and throwing nine darts for every Labour three. There were those poisoned-arrow chucking posh blue twits cheering “Woo-ha-ha” to their extremely limited chin-less successes in the types of wards that always included a verdant tailored park and a well-funded secondary school. Also there, with a picnic and thermos for God’s sake, were a couple of fat optimistic Liberal/SDP bawbags, double-sized organic tops hung outside their troosers and desperate to have the even fatter guts to admit they were in awe of the Tories. They knew they were a bit shitty and out of their sideways-glancing league, and anyhoo they were far too busy musing and preparing for David Steel‘s groundbreaking new government in the imminent General Election, the silly tubes, to worry about getting their arses felt. With possibly more supporters in the building than either the Conservatives or the Liberal/SDP-ers, and certainly more outside with their Saltires and hauf bottles, smoking their Kensitas Club King Size, and cowrin’ beside the urine-honking protection barriers that stopped them plunging in for a quick yellow flight from the ridicule after yet another spanking, was the ridiculous SNP. What a sneer (a naturally developed one and not the nasty one taught at The Douglas Alexander School for Strays from 1997) we had at their mad-house crew, blathering fu’ and crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet: while taking a fly glance anywhere lest Lefties catch them off the wire. Motley? Schmotley! The dicks.
But to our tale! Back in the hall as we strolled back in Convenor Charles Gray was on the oche and he’d just scored 180% of all votes available in Chryston. Rampant Chas, with the most clean-shaven chin in the history of Red Clydeside, a killer reek of Hi-Karate, surely the most coiffured hairy heid in Christianity, and perhaps the biggest bank balance in Socialist Europe, was glorious; o’er every bloody ill of life victorious. His guid grey jacket, of Paisley harn, weighed a ton. It had leather elbow patches and IT WAS IRONED. I swear it! Those patches were as flat as a rigwoodie hag’s tit.
Joe and I started having a bit of sport noising up a couple of aul’ tartan blawbags with chanters for noses who wheezed and piped and squeezed their lungs to get a breath. We felt safe in the absolute certainty that we could babystep faster than they could run. All four of us were getting a bit loud, with scarlet mockery from us and them screwing their beaks to gart them skirl, when Commissar Charles came down the stairs flowing like a real boy Disney queen. He glowered at us with a slow prudent care and none-too-gently took Joe and me aside, nodding to the Tweedy Clangers and getting a respectful, if half-barleycorned, look in return. I was so scared that I found could take my eyes of his barnet with remarkable ease for the very first time.
“You stupid wee arseholes!” he scolded, and might well have used even more gaudy vocabulary. “These people you laugh at are not here for a celebration or a victory parade. They turn up at every bloody election count, knowing that they are going to get thrashed. They’re here to support their friends who they know cannot win. They are not in this for political reasons.: they are here because they love Scotland. That’s all. So what gives you two arseholes the right to mock them as if they’re idiots? Get out you wee poofs! You make me sick.”
Election night was getting late so we took ourselves through the gate, heading off to get a taxi to take us over the keystone of the Jamaica Bridge with our tails fast between our lifted legs. Within a week of Charles Gray’s admonishment I had left the Labour family for the family reasons suggested before, and left behind the snotty prejudiced nose that I looked down on the SNP with. Thanks to Charles I eventually remembered that I loved Scotland too. I joined up to King’s Park branch (five of us in a wee pub at my first meeting) of the tousled SNP for political companionship later that year and worked hard doing the things you gotsta do. I discovered the dram and the drama of aul’ Scotia and gradually transformed without regret from a co-opted tadpole to a tartan toad as comfortable squatting on a lily as in a manky aul’ flat.
The subsequent 1987 General Election was a Krokk o’ Kakk®, the only consolation being that it was worse for Labour, and their only consolation was that it was a catastrophe for the Liberal/SDP Alliance. Catastrophic in-so-far as their mutant lovechildren, the insipid twins, the irrelevant schizophrenic Liberal Democrats, fell oot the womb with a plop and cracked their collective heid on the scullery floor before the midwife arrived.
I have never learned a better political lesson: people are in politics for a variety of valid purposeful reasons; but people are in the SNP primarily because they love Scotland and think her worthy of distilled all-consuming attention. It’s one of the greatest loves of all.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and Uncle’s son take heed;
Whene’er to darts you are inclin’d,
Or Tweedy Clangers run in your mind,
Think! Ye may wear elbow patch, oh dear –
Remember Charlie Gray’s big hair