Tuesday, 3 September 2019

Mirror mirror...

Ah wis watchin Doris answerin the right honourable an fabulous Joanna Cherry wi the words "I refer the Right Honourable and Fabulous Lady to the answer I gave a moment ago", an ah had a flashback o Maggie utterin the exact same words, year in year oot fer a decade, an then it morphed intae a vision, like in Polanski's Macbeth where Macbeth has a wobbly at a pairty an sees the unendin succession o Banquo's descendants, ye know that bit, the unbroken line o Kings leadin aw the way doon tae Jamie Saxt, (cos he wis the original version's sponsor ye see, a nice wee bit o spin fer Jamie, the auld fox he wis)...

Anyway, this vision is like when ye fold yer dressin-table wing-mirrors in an ye see yersel tae infinity, that sort o thing, an ah suddenly saw a long line o Tory Prime Ministers stretchin away oot o sight tellin Scotland that they're shite but we'll take aw yer money an yer first-born... It's an awfy vision o the future, except ah'm describin the last 40 years, dinnae ever tell me Scots 'wullnae put up wi this' or they 'wullnae put up wi that', we've pit up wi it aw awreadys, an we've let oorsels get colonised by wankers ffs!

It could well be oor future if we dinnae dae somethin different, somethin unorthodox, somethin that works... an here ah'll spell it oot fer ye, Wur. No. Daein. It. Yet.


  1. That wool is now unravelled, rolled inti a baw and handed to oor Nicola with a pair of knitting needles. She's going to watch Boris trundling past on his ain customised red tumbrel wi a sign sayin "£350 million fur the NHS"on his road tae perdition.

  2. Ye know ah hae ma reservations ower Nicola's knittin abilities, she's been droppin an awfy lot o stitches recently, but sae long as it looks like it's comin oot jist blua an white, an there's nae red, nae orange an purple an green, she can sing a rainbow if she wants but ah dinnae need her knittin me one, ah want blue an white, nothin mair... anyway, sae long as that's whit she's daein, we could pit her up oan the balcony o Moray Hoose an let her hae a guid gob oan Johnson as he passes up the Hie Street oan his tumbrel... jist fer history's sake ye understand, ah'm no advocatin folk gobbin in the street, ah draw the line at that.

  3. That'll be the exception that proves the rule, of course, ye hae tae dae that... ah've kent folk save up their spit aw day so's they can gie the Heart an extra big gobbin oan the way hame, but ah tend tae avoid that bit o the street masel, ah'm that used tae bein feart o gettin caught an pit inside the Tolbooth that say if ah wis up the Lawnmarket an ah had tae get past it ah wid fer orner nip doon a back close an work ma way roond. Ah'm no the only yin, the Tolbooth pit the fear o death intae a lot o us.

    But some days ah'll gird ma loins an go fer it. These days ye hae tae fight yer way through three layers o towrists tae even get a free line o fire... it's no the first time ah've thought ah had the line but then some numpty wi a camera steps in an catches ma spit aw doon them.

    Traditions can be hellish things.