Scotland : A Country Dying of Political Cancer
Disclaimer: I am 100% Scot so any rocks thrown in this article are home-grown and locally sourced. Not long ago, crushed by the wheel of covid, I returned, reluctantly, to Scotland. My god, what wimps and cowards my tribe had become. Once upon a time in my home town, obvious goverment lies and commands were met with fierce resistance and open hostility. In 2020 however, the word 'pandemic' sent Glasgow trembling like a whimpering pup. Covid had achieved nothing but Scotland was already sick -crawling on its knees, withered and shrunken like a dying dog.
Take a look around you, my brethren. What remains of your father's rugged determination, your mother's humble dreamings? Where is the great extended familial-tribe-mob to which you once belonged, that partied and roared in joy and defiance, and cackled in mockery at the strawberry-faced ponces of Empire who fed on the fruits of our very own, very Scottish brilliance?
Scotsmen they were, who launched the Industrial revolution; Scots who striped the entire world with tarmac roads, thunderous railway trains, dazzled the continents with sorceries of engineering and telecommunication. From the banks of the river Clyde were launched the mightiest ships ever seen on the oceans of the earth. Scots they were, who led the charge out of misery into civilisation - birthed astounding innovations that raised the living standards of peasants to a level only Kings could have enjoyed in centuries gone by. Etc, etc. pass the tartan.
DOWNTOWN
Take a look around yer city, Jock. Drive if you dare upon the tarmac roads of SNP Glasgow, smashed like broken bricks, crumpled, holed as if by grenades. Walk, if you dare, through tides of festering garbage and savage, rabid gulls that swirl on the morning pavements. Tread carefully on the SNP backstreets, where junkies stumble and doors are triple-locked. Keep your spider-sense tingling in the territories claimed by new-arrivals - those brooding, hoodied gangs who jabber in strange, incomprehensible tongues, because the custom ghettos of Glasgow are home to every lost tribe -except, of course, Glaswegians.
Escape, run, my brethren -a mere bus-ride away is salvation in the Great West End, where a thousand cafe-restaurants wait for anyone with fifteen quid to throw at lunch; stores crammed with every foodstuff that grows upon the globe; haggle in any of a hundred languages; stare at the Big Screen in a vertical-drinking paradise and plan for the Festival Season. Mysteriously wealthy strangers drift from bar to bar by day; patrol the upscale brothels and casinos by night, scampering fast from the cab to the club, lizard-skin wallets jammed with plastic and a Rolex tucked discreetly up the sleeve.
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| ROLEX SHOP, SAUCHIEHALL STREET |
The superlative remains of the architectural indulgences of the 19th century -pillars, crenellations, stonemasonry, turrets, arches, the bloody stone lions at George Square FFS! -dwindle in the eye of the overhead police-drones. Taller by far -towering monsters, indeed- are the glass & chrome temples of Santander, Morgan Stanley & AXA.
FURTHER EDUCATION
Glasgow is vanishing, vibrant, and diverse, too. Around ten a.m. -never too early- about 200,000 innocent visa-clutching 'students' from the four corners of the Twitterverse trundle dutifully into the rows of new Universities. About twenty thousand pounds later, they will emerge as blue-haired lesbian bulldogs, gay simps and glassy-eyed, non-binary trans-bores.
They will not flee this city like I once did. They're here for the long-haul, and will compete to inhabit, possibly for ever, the high-rise warren of of micro-apartments rising from the wastelands on the borders of a once-forbodden zone called the Gorbals.
Surrounded by flagpoles of throbbing 5G, electro-magnetically insulated from anything resembling nature, tablets and phones glowing, burping and beeping round the clock, tomorrow's Perfect Citizens are already prepping for Social Credit Heaven. Alone with his/her/their full-length mirror, the sensitive, sensual, oh-so sexual young rehearse in private for (limited) public appearances, fingering the wafer-thin fabrics dangling in their wardrobes: the unisex rainbow pants, the shapeless bags of conformity, a tube of drag-queen glitter-spray, and the black gloves, hoods and boots required to become Antifa on demo-days.
Glasgow, sweet slum-city of my youth, is leading the way on diversity, inclusion and equity. The way to where, I cannot say.
Half a dozen times a year the people meet in the Old Way -at Parkhead or Ibrox, to gasp and cheer as Celtic and Rangers football teams join combat. Just as they have since 1888, tens of thousands gather together, cough up rather a lot of cash to sit on hard plastic seats and sing the blessed names of their idols: Kyogo Furihashi, Daizen Maeda, Reo Hatate, Borna Barisic, Fashion Sakala and (my personal favourite) Nnamdi Ofoborh.
WHO ARE YOU BY THE WAY?
Wheels are turning in faraway Edinburgh, the traditional seat of traitors. Inside a soulless dump they've been calling Parliament since 2004, a sleazy, half-shaven Asian cuckoo preens himself as "First Minister" of this thing he dares to call 'Scotland'. Humzah Yusef, unloved, unwanted, backed by a hastily-imported clan of like-minded Muslims, gibbers about "massive tax-rises" while cops queue to arrest his former bosses. Blind to irony, the chief SNP goon is quoted saying "I don't think we're a party of criminals." His oafish self-importance is nonetheless paraded before an ignorant, bewildered population with no purpose, no identity and not enough pride to drive him and his party of thieves and perverts out of power.
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