I was reading an article on British colonialism and while I was reading about our treatment of the Scottish, a rather disturbing thing happened...I swelled with pride. Indeed, pride. Proud of those men who would risk their sanity in that land of barbarous, incomprehensible gingers.
I don't know why I felt that way. I suppose it made me feel good to know that Braveheart really was bullshit, and that there was far more collusion and shady dealings with our boys on the part of the nefarious Scotch than the sinister bastards would have their murderous, misbegotten, high-rise-block-dwelling-offspring believe.
Fact: No good will come of Scotland. Trainspotting was alright, but when the best thing from your country is a film about smackheads, it's time to straighten up and fly right. Oh, you silly, silly Scottish.
Pride. Shameful, yes, a tad too right-wing, definitely, but pride...always. We tried to achieve. We dared to dream. We took a pissed up tiger by the tale and determined to tame it, to force it to learn so hard. We failed, eventually, and now pay the price in the form of an unelected PM no-one remembers five minutes after he's left the room.
Pride. In the name of the King, I implore those wild men of the rugged mountains leave us be, allow us safe passage on our way to greater riches than any Celt could e'er dream of.
Pride. If it be God's will, may they learn that White Lightening hasn't been fashionable since 1986, and adjust their drinks accordingley.
Cry God for Harry, England and, perhaps, St George.