gibberish


Oh my. It seems women have “the vote” nowadays.

How could womens’ tiny minds cope with deciding the future of our nation in between all that child rearing, ironing and tea-making?  Gosh, it must be tremendously difficult don’t you think?

I mean, they only have two minutes in a day to consider difficult things like the self determination of their nationhood, the economic viability of Scotland’s oilfields, the sustainability of the NHS, the economic pros and cons of a fiscal union.

Better Together has captured this moment of cranial machination in the beautifully titled Referendum Broadcast “The woman who made up her mind”.  Yes.  That really is what it’s called.

My, my.  There is one then – a (the) woman who can make her mind up and decide something as difficult as how to vote in the referendum.  (Without “her Paul” making her mind up for her that is.)  

What a clever old clogs she is .  (“Hey, enough of the old”.  Ed.)

“There’s one thing I do know (that’s great hen, well done) I’m not going to gamble with my children’s future.” says she triumphantly having worked it all out.

So, that’s the key behavioural lever that Better Together has identified in its research groups. It doesn’t really matter what you think because actually it’s all a massive gamble.  It’s your kids that are the stake and gambling is inherently risky (no-one ever won a bet did they) and therefore evil and so you’d be evil to gamble with your children’s future (not like you can change your mind in 4 years time is it.)

Put all this it in the mouth of a typical Scottish housewife and the logic is unarguable.  

The trouble is it’s all a lot of patronising shit.  

Better Together says there are no answers, no facts and it’s not worth the risk/gamble because you don’t know what lies ahead.

I didn’t know what lay ahead when I backed Germany to win the World Cup, but they did.

No-one knows what lies ahead in this instance but we can make our own informed choices by listening to “that man on the telly”  or reading around the subject (if only we had the time).

But, most importantly, we can consider the fact that right now we get back less than we put in to our economy, the decisions that affect our fundamental standing in this world are made 400 miles away in a hotbed of right wing policy making by three parties that don’t remember where they came from or know where they are going and are only interested in one city.  London.

Stick that in your fruit scone and eat it hen – while you think (for two minutes) about what “your Paul” might think.



As September 18th approaches I draw inspiration from the great bard himself
August 26, 2014, 11:16 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Tae a Union

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be loathe to run an’ chase thee
Wi’ murderin’ prattle 



I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Is feart tae break this awful union,
An’ listens tae that ill opinion,
Which makes me startle
At thee, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal! 



I have nae doubt, but thou may thieve;
But then? Poor beastie, you have tae live!
A drap o’ tax frae an oilfield
It’s a sma’ request;
We’re still blessed wi’ the main yeild,
An’ never miss it! 



Thy massive housie in ruin!
It’s silly walls the winds are blowin!
An’ naething, now, to build a new one,
Oh! nothing green!
An’ bleak October’s winds ensuin’,
Both bleak an’ keen! 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An’ cozy here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell
Till crash! Independence passed
Right through your hell. 



That wee bit heap o’ Jocks, all trouble,
Has sent thee many a weary quibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for all thy trouble,
With broken hame,
To last the winter’s sleety dribble,
And icy realm! 



But London, thou art not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ leave us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy! 



So we art blest, compared wi’ thee;
The present only toucheth me:
But ouch! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects drearier!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess but withoot fear!