Alrighty? The rather pointless charade referred to as the Queen coming up the parliament was, for me, rather gleefully overshadowed by a Bomb Threat at Waverly Station in Edinburgh. To be honest, I reckon the police were itching for some over time.

I guess I should introduce myself since I've opened my own public blog. Hi! There you go, don't say I'm not nice to you.

I decided to do this because I was bored. I'm one of these people who likes watching the news, likes watching documentaries. But, to quote Hard Harry from the film Pump up the Volume. "All the greats have been used up and turned into theme parks."

"I'm sorry, but 10,000 of my brothers and sisters in Arran Sweaters is no advertisement for the protection of a language."

If you read most internet stuff on Scotland, you'd find a place that's either bedecked in Tartan or servile. That's not the Scotland that I know and live in.

It's a much funnier and cynical place that American Tartan Day is going to be able to show.

I'm a Republican, a Nationalist and a moaning, cynical bastard. Unlike most Nationalists I don't give a fuck about Gaihlig. Let the language die. I'm sorry, but 10,000 of my brothers and sisters in Arran Sweaters is no advertisement for the protection of a language.

I'm from Lanarkshire. No-one wants to protect the 100,000 strong language that my Lanarkshire Brothers and sisters speak. It's a little know one called "Nedage." There is no letter "T" in Nedage. One also speaks predominantly from the nasal cavity. One's voice must permanently sound like a motorbike starting.

Does the kilted SNP hierarchy protect Nedage? No. Not a jot.

I think I should get to my original point. And, despite my previous jokes, it is a serious one.

"I haven't been fucked like that since grade school." Helena Honham Carter in Fight Club.

There's a cancer at the heart of Scotland right now. You can feel it in the breeze of mediocre Saxophonists going down Buchanan Street in Glasgow. You can smell it when cheap wine makes the back seats of buses sticky with a generation of wasted lives.

Scotland now has it's own "Suicide Watch" Tsar, in the same way that a Drugs Tsar was created a few years ago.

Despite the fact I voted for the Scottish Socialist Party at the previous election. Despite my Republican Leanings. We look too much like white europeans for anyone to give a fuck racially. Political Correctness has made us bland. Each of the previous generations had a apocalypse to face. WW1, WW2, Korea, Vietnam, Cold War, Potential Nuclear Armageddon. Now our generation wakes up with the grim realisation that this crap didn't kill us and the adrenalin rush has left us directionless, far too familiar with drugery.

In the film, Fight Club, Brad Pitt (as Tyler Durden) said to the assembly in the Fight Club he created: "We were raised on television to believe that we'd all be millionares, movie gods, rock stars, but we won't. And we're starting to figure that out." Mind you, I am quoting the film which gets Helena Bonham Carter to say: "I haven't been fucked like that since grade school." But you get my point.

Anyway, I'm done for the day.

Some interesting links in relation to the below post are here:

Movement Against the Monarchy - Televangelist Anarchist Anti Monarchists. They've appeared on BBC2 they have.
ThroneOut - Funny, satirical, brilliant, controversial are some words I'd use for this website if I was a nice person.
Scottish Republican Socialist Movement - Devotees of the Glasgow Red Clydeside Firebrand John Maclean.
Scottish Resistance - New, and slightly smaller website than all the rest. Interesting graphics though.

If you've got anything to say, anything to add, you can e-mail me: firefox1297@msn.com

Kenny Contra Monarchy

Once upon a time there was a farmer called Kevin. He lived with about 14 other Kevin’s and Kevina’s. They farmed, they ate, the propagated. During winter when they couldn’t farm they propagated like sewer rats listening to Prince. They propagated all night long (All Night! Aww-awwll niiigghhhhttt… etc.)

Then one day, loads of other Kevin’s just down the valley decided that they liked the Upper Valley Kevin’s Land just as much as their own, and so decided, one crisp June morning, to go up with some heavy stone tools they used to build houses with, and lamp the Upper Valley Kevin’s; propagate some Kevina’s, chuck them out and double the amount of land they had.

So the Upper Valley Kevin’s did wander until one man declared himself the Head Kevin, ordered his obviously anxious band of homeless Kevin’s to get some of that Red Stuff that the sorcerers removed from Rocks (which they usually made into grass cutting implements) and ordered them to turn it into Kevin Cutting Implements. Naturally, the lower valley Kevin’s were smitten in their lion-skin shell suits and annihilated.

This tradition of the “Head Kevin” would last until the 3rd Day of June, 2003 when the last in a long line of Head Kevina’s would demand that her Scottish Proles promise not to sack her or any of her scrounging family because otherwise how would she pay for her Ermine Robes, Versace Shoes or Nepalese Rent Boys (wearing nice Christian Dior Combat fatigues)?

Yes indeedy, Good Queen Mabel is traipsing north so we all have to very nice, curtsey and mention the war as often as possible.

Now, I can understand why Kevin in Ancient Africa needed some form of expedient hierarchy to defend himself. But, seriously, we’re reaching into the realms of political necrophilia by keeping this charade going.

Tradition is the word used by people who are scared of taking responsibility. Ancient Tradition is the term used by Right Wing Newspaper Editors who are too drunk to bother defending the former term.

If we’re being honest, in Scotland, the only people who actually agree with the monarchy are Ranger’s Supporters (because they’re so dumb they think it’ll piss off Celtic Supporters), Celtic Supporters (because they’re too lazy to chant “Fuck the Prime Minister”) and old women (who are senile and need someone to help their tea-cosy fashion sense).

I nearly became a monarchist once. I was sitting in work one day, listening to the political philosophising in between staring at my screensaver and wanting to leave for a cigarette. I work in Council Tax, so the main arch-villain seems to occasionally be Tommy Sheridan. But that wasn’t the problem. My work would solve the world’s problems. Imagine, if you will, a Scotland that doesn’t allow immigration; in which single mothers stay home and look after their kids (but don’t get an increase in benefit). I looked at the quality of political discussion, went away, and had my cigarette thinking: “And I want to let these morons vote for a Prez?” Look at America. George Dubya. Jesus.

But no, no, no. Kenny, I said, (because I talk to myself) Kenny, they’re not that dumb; they’re just leading you into a false sense of superiority. I said I “nearly” became a monarchist at that point. I didn’t because having fortunately spoken to people in the real world; most people aren’t as shallow, self-opinionated and dumb the people I work with. (N.B. I haven’t used a pseudonym for this page, so whatever the f**k you do, don’t forward this to your mates.)

The point in the hierarchy of Monarchy is that it’s a protection thing. The world was an incredibly violent place for tens of millions of years. If you weren’t getting molested by a Dinosaur, you were chucking some horny Mongol or Viking off your wife. Having leadership cements your own position. It’s the pack instinct, survival of the fittest.

But the thing is, in my opinion, we’ve grown beyond that. We still need leaders, but the lottery of whichever Norman Family is the best at shagging is getting a bit old. There are GOOD presidents.

Remember Yeltsin leading the People against the counter attack by the Communist Old Guard? Okay, so later on he was an alcoholic. Or maybe even Putin refusing to be bullied by America into Bombing Iraq? How about Castro defying America for years on their own doorstep?

Or even the dynasty of Germans who were played as pawns by the Allies for fifty years against the Soviet Union; who were attacked by some of the most effective and violent terrorist organisations in Western Europe; who faced the ashes of the second world war, having no army, very little remaining infrastructure and reputation as war criminals, Nazi’s and homicidal maniacs and having their country ripped into two. And despite all that, they built a country a damn site better than this one and united everything they lost.

Look at the evidence. The voices of the past have been silenced, sacked and replaced. All the heroes these families were bred from are now dead and their gene pool is so dangerously inbred that every royal is STILL screened for the same illness which drove King George III insane. Meanwhile the rest of the world moves on, and we still have to show deference to a bag lady, her mad husband and her vacuous children.