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Devo Min #indyref Clef

Do you agree…? Rin the words

Enamels grind, three rampant chords

SAME flat. FREE sharp. Minor DEVO MAX

Wallies. Sparkle. Smoor’d wi’ plaque

The grandest pick in three hunner year

Lang sang but shushed for abdy’s weal

 

Honour’s grantit to SAME and FREE

Pride them baith, true destiny

When mind is fixed, to anither quest:

Land Reform and Pauper Test

Guid fare ye scoff at Lordly table

Guid grace yer ain wee fashion label

 

Bur DEVO MAX whit dung is this?

That panders “Bleat!” nane can resist

Nae block grant, aft worldly tension

Defend! Attack! Scaurs any nation

Fireguard works when coal’s in train

WMDs be farthest gane

 

And policy for oor freen’s abroad

In the gift of the London Lords?

Who hate and champ and wail and gnash

And toast ain might wi’ the petty cash

Gie ‘minster swap yon Holyrood jam

For Embra defence and foreign plan

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Internationalist Labour? My Bright Red Arse.

Where I’m coming from here is a place that could be either antipodal or right next door. The Arrivals exit is behind and I’m walking oot to the fresh air, with a jaunty gait, for a quick fag in the tiny ten square feet of Smoking Zone. I’m walking forward with purpose, but I could never leave what’s behind me behind me, as it were. Like a jet-setting hipcat with cosmopolitan breadth-of-mind, the self-titled Internationalist is bang-on right: he or she is outward thinking, she’s humane, she’s considerate, she’s a unifier, she’s diplomatic, she’s a solution finder, she’s a conversationalist, she’s an emollient, and she’s a joiner. But the opposite is also true: he’s no unnameable-namer, nor is he a castigator, he isn’t divisive, and he is no bricklayer.

I was brought up on the Left side of the road. Using only the words my father genetically donated to me in the family’s word-pool, in my mind there are two nourishing character building breakfasts the Labour movement has prepared for the whole world, and each is tastier than any other: firstly, the cultivated concordance garnished with Halal humanity and Kosher conduct is served up to see everyone fed. The bulging corn is there for everyone, extravagantly rooted in the foundations of the great institutions the Labour movement has canopied above the scorched human earth of the Industrial Revolution. Not far behind this perpetual feast is the camaraderie of the natural Internationalism of the Rift Valley exodus, lost for thousands of years in the barbarity of the City State, the Nation State, and the great Empires of the Eastern and Western worlds.

The further the wee journey that circumstance has engineered for me towards Scottish Nationalism takes me (currently stuck in the Smoking Zone at the airport you may remember) the more I am interested in those big knockers, the sallow heavy-lidded belittlers, who preach that Internationalism and Nationalism are opposites with polar repulsion to each other. Invariably these Internationalist Holy Willies are working class from an aspirational class background who haven’t done anything but a middle class job in all their days, with middle class salaries and a middle class family in a middle class school, living comfortably in a middle class hoose in a middle class scheme in Milngavie or Bearsden. The longer the gravy train steams away from the shipyard the more Internationalist the Labour ideal and the less coin-oriented their class-struggle becomes; the more intellectual the semi-socialist the harder it is to tell them apart from anyone else in open-necked shirt and Management creased troosers.

Internationalism! The boundary crusher! The perfect attitude developed for mankind on the square and on the level, and in every Columban club; an attitude personified in wir ain wee Ayrshire bard whae didst proclaim that a brother bee is a’ gnat, proving that even in the insect world we are all the same. We’re a’ twins in all but outward appearance. So the Internationalist stands tall and comfortable, and looks loftily doon their beak at the wee ridiculous Nationalist farting about in the mud and getting dirtier, expending all effort and energy in creating pointless division, separating working brother from working brother with weasel words and token gestures in an insane uncivilised cause.

However, I have noticed one minor fault in the Scottish Labour-oriented clever clogs Internationalist argument, as they scoff at how pathetic a national border just before Carlisle would be: “An anti-Internationalist concept!” they deride. They wail against setting brother on brother from behind their pruned high hedge “Division in the class war!” and all that jizz-jazz. And yet, for all of their buoyant Internationalism, and their contempt of deadweight Nationalism, the Labour Internationalist is as fierce a Nationalist and as xenophobic a bigot as the most rampant of any obsessed Nat I’ve come across. They have simply chosen to help our upper-class UK toffs to build a monstrous Scarfe-like wall at Dover instead, a hundred times bigger and nastier and fouler than poor aul’ Hadrian’s. The Labour Wall is designed to keep Johnny Foreigner – not the Brythonic hoards – at bay. For now a choice remains, but it’s a choice that will have to be made gey soon: a sterile Blighty, staunch, clean and pure; or an outward, just, socially-inclusive teeny weeny petty piece of tartan dirt.

The Cybernat and This and That

Cyber –                 A prefix that means “computer” or “computer network,” as in cyberspace, the electronic medium in which online communication takes place. The American Heritage® Science Dictionary

Nat –                     A certifiable fervent Nationalist nut job. The Daily Record

Cybernat –          1. An abusive and aggressive person who reacts intolerantly to anyone with an unflattering opinion on Scottish Independence or of the Scottish National Party on political or news websites. The Scotsman

2. A proud passionate patriotic defender of the ancient nation of Scotland, her history and traditions, her significance and standing in the UK/EU/RoW, and her capability of success independent from the meddling of repressive self-serving masters, against the humungous UK media machine and various boorish pro-Union posting balloons. Self-titled

Cybernat? I was a called a Cybernat today. Having initially taken offence, as is my default reaction to most things being a North Lanarkshire laddie of West Highland decent, I was about to umbragify my response accordingly. However, and this is an uncomfortable admission, my ire has calmed recently. I don’t get as het up as I once baked. My irk has become smooth and fresh white linen. So modifying my language with perfumed peace, and suppressing an embryonic gnash, I admonished the brainless stupid negative arrogant sheep-like imbecilic name-caller with wail-less panache.

I am new to Twitter and blogs and things. I am not an established Cybernat as the first definition above would have it. I try to be reasonable and acknowledge strength of argument and points skilfully made. A natural unsophisticated voice of reason. I’ll listen to other views like those of Labour Blogger Ian Smart – him that can stop my frustrated concentration with the use of one clever and beautiful word that slashes a Z on the front of my over-worn RAMMSTEIN t-shirt, and forces my ground-gaining momentum to stand at ease and fall out. But I much prefer the comfort of speed-nodding, like an unkempt Andrew Marr, to a WeegieBurdy breakthrough that brings clarity and reinforcement to what I messily think I believe in. It’s like puffing up the cushions for a better loaf.

I doubt I’m nae the latter characterisation either.  I might react with mediaeval penmanship against a slight sometimes or against a particular tube if the notion takes me, but, oft’er than not, I won’t be arsed. My reasoning is thus: I don’t think, and it’s just a guess, that anyone has changed their #indyref mind over one Twittery blaw with some contrary bawbag one way or t’other.  Similarly, I don’t think that a George Foulkes-ish neo-Luddite, with Lordly sham-piety for subservience towering head and shoulders over any left-leaned shed, has changed the mind of a single person in the last few years with their tweety shite. The same with the foul-minded slithery Douglas Alexandery type, razing high-built pride down to mucky deconstructive chaos, or a not-of-this-world bleary Tavish Scott-like twit misunderstanding a blatancy; they are no longer uber-influencers, leastways not in the way they intended. Ironically, I’d say that this ill-thought through belittling of people who believe wholeheartedly in Scotland, and the pro-Union media’s general branding of Pro-Independence with Laptop types as Dangerous Internet Nutters has helped to entrench views and raise the Cybernat from a perceived inconsequential deluded numpty to a carrier of a wee drappie sophisticated influence, with a few scary exceptions.

Taking responsibility for the words you choose to write

Och aye, today was yet another fascinating political day in the Scottish media as the polished and sparkling UK machine came oot the garage at last. MOT’d, serviced, fuelled up and with new high-grip winter tyres, the expensive Conservative-funded Rolls Royce slipped into first and drew away from the pavement.  In the family saloon newspaper side of the business, of the six UK nationals with Scotified amendments, and the five Scottish dailies I’ve bought every day this week, the party propaganda push, or PPP, is powering out content. Here’s a breakdown of the number of stories with a politically jaundiced slant as I choose to see them: for Independence 12  vs  against Independence 317.

The Scotsman is the newspaper with the most bias one way or the other. Taking comment out from overall news journalism, the percentage of For / Against is just under 96%. Inspired and perhaps intimidated by Messrs Russell and Highfield, the News and Politics journalists of the Scotsman are finding anti-YES twists in every political story they cover, some with genuine concerns, but some that would take Stretch Armstrong to pull back to sanity.  They spray-paint “INCOMPETENCE” over the YES landscapes, and they slash every YES politician’s portrait with Scream-stealing scalpels, while lauding and promoting every NO campaigner, corrupt, incompetent, or genuine to messianic heights.

Do Messrs Barnes and Farquharson’s four-inch” paintbrushes wash the red, white and blue canvas of their own accord? Are they visionary leaders in the pro-Union movement? Are they intellectual neutrals whose massive brains can sift the soil for seeds to re-plant, every seed found germinating proof of the Union benefit? Or are they in it for their £80K salaries, suppressing fairness, decorum and objectiveness as best they can to pay the mortgage and do the best for self and family?

I dinnae ken. All I know is that the UK gas-guzzling automobile is going up the gears and it is going to cost a lot of money to keep it moving. This money, secret and invisible, is coming from somewhere. It’s heaved into the Electrolux washing machine with Bold Biological scented with London Lavender and Tory Thyme and Judicious Jasmine, then dried and distributed. I dare say a small part of it ends up in the lazy lounges of Edinburgh’s highbrow cobbled streets, to be sub-distributed down the channels in salary and bonus.

I may be a miserable and jealous pauper. I may eventually back the wrong #indyref horse in time. I also may lose objectivity and class, but I will remain unknown to the history of Scotland when it is re-written after the referendum, regardless of result. I’m content with that. There are those however, those who scratch virtual paper most, who are already beginning to gain notoriety. I wouldn’t swap their Oxford Brogue shoes for golden boots or silvery slippers.