One of our terrorists is missing
During the festival period the eyes of the World were on Scotland. This was not just because a lot of bagpipes going off at once tends to get attention, but also because Scotland decided to release the Lybian bloke who was imprisoned for blowing up the Pan Am jet over Lockerbie. This was an exercise of mercy and, some would say, the proper action of a mature nation.
Barely had the debate in Scotland about whether the release was the right or wrong thing to do started when the first foreign criticism of the action rolled in from America. The rights and wrongs of the exercise of mercy were forgotten as a million hairy arsed Scotsmen gave a collective ‘whit noo?’ when their country – THEIR COUNTRY – was criticised by a person from a nation where democracy is still in the pimply stage and who thinks that the proper way to treat criminals is either execute them or build a naked pyramid of them and take photographs, like torture Tetris.
Scotland is granite. It’s wild heather and mountainsides. It’s men built like giants who risk their life at sea to feed their families, it’s wee stunted men down mean closes in Glasgow tenements. It’s aspiration and desperation and beauty and terrible terrible deeds.
It does not take criticism well. Actually it doesn’t take criticism at all.
And to be fair, while well-fed folk in England and America were having a pop at Scotland (what this had to do with England I have no idea, that Pan Am clipper was blown up over Lockerbie, not Chipping Fucking Norton) actual criticism from real live Americans, of which there were many in Edinburgh, was not forthcoming. Could this be a case of the meedja stirring the pot? Surely not.
Given that people go all radicalised Moslem in clink, I reckon that after a few years in a Scottish prison Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi has become a radicalised Scotsman. Now known as Alex ‘Wee Al’ MacGrahied, he has been turned on to the true path of the fish supper, a wee dram and ‘The Sunday Post’ every weekend. One can just imagine his homecoming, with various Arab bigwigs rolling out the red carpet from the tent, only to be greeted with a cry of ‘Jings, helpmaobawb! Away ye big jessies, whit are ye wearing dresses fer? An see this sheep’s heid? It’s naw even deep fried. Nameachrist whit’s gain own?’
‘We welcome you on your return from prison with a banquet and, er, a platter of dates. And some goat’s milk’.
‘Are you taking the pish? I’m fer a pie supper, a pint of heavy, a rare tear across the flaire wi’ that lassie owe’r there and then aff ta the pub to see the Harts Hibs game.’
‘Alcohol is forbibben.’
‘Right Achmed, turn this fookin’ ‘plane round RIGHT NOW, I’m aff haim.’
The Americans are threatening a boycott of Scottish products. So that’s MacDonald’s fucked.
Finally, it occurs that although rentagobs have been foaming at the mouth on telly about this, on the streets of Edinburgh, where just about every nation is represented, nobody seems to be criticising anyone. They are too busy buying united in a single thought…how the hell did the Lybians get hold of all those Saltire flags? I mean, I know that in Lybia they probably sell stars and stripe and union flags as fast as they can burn them, but the Saltire? The three being waved about at the airport were probably the only ones in the country. The tat shop owners of Edinburgh were probably kicking themselves at not anticipating the order add air-freighting a few dozen out there ahead of Wee Al’s ‘plane landing. And some shortbread too, naturally.
Barely had the debate in Scotland about whether the release was the right or wrong thing to do started when the first foreign criticism of the action rolled in from America. The rights and wrongs of the exercise of mercy were forgotten as a million hairy arsed Scotsmen gave a collective ‘whit noo?’ when their country – THEIR COUNTRY – was criticised by a person from a nation where democracy is still in the pimply stage and who thinks that the proper way to treat criminals is either execute them or build a naked pyramid of them and take photographs, like torture Tetris.
Scotland is granite. It’s wild heather and mountainsides. It’s men built like giants who risk their life at sea to feed their families, it’s wee stunted men down mean closes in Glasgow tenements. It’s aspiration and desperation and beauty and terrible terrible deeds.
It does not take criticism well. Actually it doesn’t take criticism at all.
And to be fair, while well-fed folk in England and America were having a pop at Scotland (what this had to do with England I have no idea, that Pan Am clipper was blown up over Lockerbie, not Chipping Fucking Norton) actual criticism from real live Americans, of which there were many in Edinburgh, was not forthcoming. Could this be a case of the meedja stirring the pot? Surely not.
Given that people go all radicalised Moslem in clink, I reckon that after a few years in a Scottish prison Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi has become a radicalised Scotsman. Now known as Alex ‘Wee Al’ MacGrahied, he has been turned on to the true path of the fish supper, a wee dram and ‘The Sunday Post’ every weekend. One can just imagine his homecoming, with various Arab bigwigs rolling out the red carpet from the tent, only to be greeted with a cry of ‘Jings, helpmaobawb! Away ye big jessies, whit are ye wearing dresses fer? An see this sheep’s heid? It’s naw even deep fried. Nameachrist whit’s gain own?’
‘We welcome you on your return from prison with a banquet and, er, a platter of dates. And some goat’s milk’.
‘Are you taking the pish? I’m fer a pie supper, a pint of heavy, a rare tear across the flaire wi’ that lassie owe’r there and then aff ta the pub to see the Harts Hibs game.’
‘Alcohol is forbibben.’
‘Right Achmed, turn this fookin’ ‘plane round RIGHT NOW, I’m aff haim.’
The Americans are threatening a boycott of Scottish products. So that’s MacDonald’s fucked.
Finally, it occurs that although rentagobs have been foaming at the mouth on telly about this, on the streets of Edinburgh, where just about every nation is represented, nobody seems to be criticising anyone. They are too busy buying united in a single thought…how the hell did the Lybians get hold of all those Saltire flags? I mean, I know that in Lybia they probably sell stars and stripe and union flags as fast as they can burn them, but the Saltire? The three being waved about at the airport were probably the only ones in the country. The tat shop owners of Edinburgh were probably kicking themselves at not anticipating the order add air-freighting a few dozen out there ahead of Wee Al’s ‘plane landing. And some shortbread too, naturally.
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