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The North British Question

After much pressure from my massive fan base [Situated in the nearby public phone box. Ermintrude] I have, albeit reluctantly, bowed to pubic demand to squeak out on the pressing issues of the day. (Not another rant on why he can’t work the washing-machine! EdZilla) No! Serious stuff like that will have to wait. Anyway, why can’t they say which hole should be filled with the gooey stuff? [God, he’s pathetic! Ermintrude] (According to his exes, that particular problem wasn’t confined to washing-machines. EdZ) Bee Quiet! Now. Where was I? Oh yes. This Referendum thingy. Right. As the time draws near to work out where to place my big kissy kissy on the form [He means the ‘X’ for his vote. Ermintrude] I have had occasion to finally try and grasp the nuances of the debate. But one or two matters concern me. Hello? Earth calling anyone? It has only recently been brought to my attention, that the current local government in Edinburgh has decided to extend the right to vote to bratlets of the age of sixteen. Including females…  Including blondes! What? Are they mad? Good grief man! When I was that age my main concerns were the Theory of Pyshagoras, and the contents of Henrietta Molestrangler’s knickers. And how to pluck up enough courage to ask the condom machine in the pub toilet for a pack of FLs.(Some things never change. EdZ) Bah! At that age most of the wee monsters are still grappling with puberty; and how to spell it.

Beyond a Yoke

However, dear discerning reader; much worserer is to come. The press seem to be concerned about heckling at some meetings on the matter – I always thought that was part of the fun. You know the stuff: ‘Voters, I appeal to you’. ‘No you don’t. I wouldn’t shag you if you were the last man in the world’ kind of thing. And some of the hecklers throw eggs. Okay; it’s a bit hard on the poor chickens, but you can’t have a Referendum without breaking a few omelettes. No. What is worrying is that the organisers of such speechifying have decided to cancel the rest of them because the Police can’t guarantee the safety of the squeaker. Eh? Who the hell is in charge of the insane asylum while these people are speaking to the media? Have you seen the size of a Scottish Policeman? Minimum height; six feet six, on a bad day. Weight; sixteen to eighteen stone of solid muscle. I mean; hello? Ever wondered about all these brilliant ‘Godzilla’ movies? ‘Godzilla v Mothra’, ‘Godzilla v The Smog Monster’? Not even Godzilla would be mad enough to tackle one of these blokes. You know; the ones who week in week out, deal with broken-hearted, weeping, tired and emotional Celtic and Rangers fans whose team has just lost ten nil to The Women’s Institute Flower Arranging team. And if they can deal with them, I would have thought they could certainly deal with the egg-chuckers of this world. By the scientific application of reason and understanding to the miscreant involved. The technical name used to be ‘a thick ear’. I foolishly imagined that one of the few real uses of any politician was to provide target practice for amateur commis chefs. Still; what do I know? [Half of bugger all, divided by two. Twatface. Ermintrude]

McTweedle-Dum v McTweedle-Dee

The key question is, what difference will it make? To which the answer is; none at all. Will Independence see a fall in the price of booze? Nope. A fall in the price of petrol? Nope. A fall in the knicker elastic of that cute librarian? [Definitely no! How about a fall in the price of kicking sexist retards right in the goolies? Ermintrude] Eeeek! Bah! Because none of us can be trusted. We mere mortals need to rely on ‘our betters’, the politicians, to decide how to spend every penny of our own taxes. North Sea Oil could end tomorrow or go on forever but either way, you and I will get absolutely nothing. Unlike, say, for example the pension funds of certain politicians and civil servants. Scrap Trident? Build a brand new shiny one with even more bells and whistles? Who cares? Either way the electors get bugger all; unlike say, entirely at random, for example, the corporations and of course their friends, the politicians and civil servants. When I was young I wanted to be a cop or a robber or a train driver or a soldier, or a sailor or whatever. I don’t know anyone who ever said they wanted to be a politician. Come to that, I still don’t. To them, it’s all about money – because that’s all they ever think of. For those on either side of the divide in this Referendum, I cannot believe they will be swayed by the crude bribes and appeals to their wallets being paraded by both sides of losers. If you are genuinely proud to be Scottish; or equally if you are genuinely proud to be British, then taking a drop in your level of income would count for nothing besides the importance of that feeling in your heart. I don’t think the men of the Highland Light Infantry who died so bravely for their country in the last War, were terribly concerned that, seventy years on, the size of their children’s pension fund would be bigger than that of their English counterparts. Think about it.

John J McCabe. Copyright.

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