Gone are the most merciless days of yesteryear when they burnt us out (their brutal baillies loving the smell of “nae-hame in the morning”) and packed us onto creaking ships, or front-lined and cannon-foddered our ablest in their imperial wars.
Not quite so gone are the post 1872 Education Act innovations of first-day-at-school ear drops intended to make Scottish speech grate on us thereafter, and those weirdly magnetic nose sprays which somehow aligned our levels of skill with an inner compulsion to head South.
These latter more subtly intrusive practices had at least moved on from the horrendously barbaric. But in recent years it has become disturbingly evident that a sputtering Scottish candle of hope has yet again been threatening to flame up with indomitable ancient light. Utterly unacceptable of course. Some ultimate manoeuvre has become necessary to reinstate benign British darkness – that ever-alluring black velvet. Some final geostationary eclipse required. There must be an endless and starless Scottish night with no disquieting (and costly) false dawns possible ever again…
So Scotland is now undergoing a radically invasive medical intervention. A barely covert operation which entirely flaunts the already well-shredded “first do no harm” injunction. To be specific, Scotland’s feeble and failing heart is being excised and will be unceremoniously binned in that black bag in the corner with the contamination symbol on it (and statutory Union Jack, needless to say). This will be terminal, obviously. There will be no transplant.
Well, actually, the unsettling and more complex reality is that Scotland in its entirety (minus trashed inert heart) is ITSELF already being used as a life-saving enhancement for a neighbouring, seriously ailing, body politic.
Throughout the ongoing operation all vital functions are of course being minutely monitored. An array of masked MSM anaesthetists of long experience are at work, intuiting what each moment prompts. Should the patient’s eyes flicker momentarily open in delirious alarm at expiring functionality [“Grangemouth Syndrome” in current jargon], then haze quickly redescends as the ever-attentive MSM team tweak requisite analgesic levels.
Please do not deem them malign. They harbour no ill-intention. Spurn all such thoughts. Though, of course, to paraphrase another’s shrewd double-negative, if they didn’t believe what they believe, they wouldn’t be sat there scrubbed-up.
We must also bear in mind in mitigation that ultimate operational decisions are being taken in a deep location far from the current scene (via the wonders of modern nano-surveillance technology).
Scotland will not wake up. That’s the nub. The faint still poignantly pulsing white light of its deepest inner consciousness will flicker a few times and then flatline forever. Scotland will be finally, definitively, irrevocably, switched off. The ensuing silence may raise a pang for a moment or two. Or even three. (And I suspect a few muffled indecorous cheers may be just audible through that forgotten intercom over there). But Scotland’s ultimate (if inadvertent) sacrifice will not have been in vain if its good neighbour breathes strong and hearty again. (Surely I hear even now a nobly soaring British anthem in the making…and fitly written by some proud Scot among us?)
I happen to notice on the operation theatre door (my attention wandering during the procedure) a discoloured ‘BETTER TOGETHER’ sign (was that name always ironic?) being taken down and replaced by the more enigmatic and somehow coldly ominous term ‘RESET’.
What to make of it all…?
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