GOOD NEWS FROM SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND.

POACHED SALMOND

IS IT BACK TO JUST TWO, OR ONE SALARY ?
OR MAYBE EVEN JUST NO SALARY AND BLEAK SURVIVAL ON THREE HANDSOME PENSIONS FOR FAT ALEC, LEADER OF THE JOCK TRIBESMEN?

D'ye have any cake in yer bag, mammy?

Fat Alec in his First Ministerial costume of bumfreezer and trews poses with his mother on her annual day out of the attic, where she is normally kept, awa' frae human ken, d'ye ken? Alec only draws his three salaries not because, like all politicians he's an unprincipled greedy fuckpig but because of Scotland's long history of suffering under the English, in the Union, see, which they themselves requested, because their bankers, then, as now, had fucked everybody up the arse with a broken bottle. If it wisnae fer they English bastards and centuries of oppression Alec wouldnae be raking in three salaries, expenses and pensions and four hunnerd poond a month fer food, Aye, food, in Westminster, when parliament wisnae sittin' and he wisnae even in the fucking country, the fat cunt.
Before joining Organised Crime UK, ie, the house of commons, Alec was an eminent economist, this is why, like all eminent people, he didn't foresee No More Boom And Bust Busting but is nevertheless, in his judgement, the only person capable of fixing Scotland's wrecked economy and staunching the haemorage of public sector jobs, even though he hasn't a fucking clue what to do, can't even keep his own weight in check; thinks, like Brown, that once soundbitten, a mad idea off the back of an envelope is automatically not only a reality but a blessing if not to mankind then certainly the right thing for the country. It's a kind of a mania, this, the devotion to the sound of their own voices, a weird form of auto-eroticism; one for Mr Verge to decipher.

He's from the Brown school of politics, Salmond, having learned his cheesy soundbiting in Westminster, it truly is embarrassing, honest, - try First Minister's Questions, on the BBC's Politics But Not Really Channel - makes you cringe; bullying, obfuscation, denial, tractor stats, bluster and bombast, these, the political equivalent of the See You, Jimmy headbutt, these are all he has - and promises of free everything - insult and gabshitery which would lower the tone in a Glasgow public bar; his evasive Holyrood performances are indulged by a Speaker as pompous and lacklustre as any recently in Westminster, one of the Anglo-Scotch elite, head up his own arse. The last incumbent of the speaker sinecure was the truly ridiculous David Shirt Steel (go back to your constituencies and prepare for ignominy, that David Steel) and this fucker's worse than him. Salmond just waffles his way through the Jock PMQs, talking egregious rubbish and saying The Scottish People every once in a while as this clown looks on adoringly and Aberdeen is sold to Donald Trump and the Highlands are sold to WindmillEnergyGangstersUlike and Transport Policy in SNP Scotland is gifted to Brian Souter, a large, half-a-million poond donor to the Tribesmen and purely concidentally a 'bus company magnate. It's just like NewLabour - pious, egalitarian horseshit from the mouths of gangsters, only up here, when the SNP shit in your face the faeces are tartan. Och , aye.

But a man's a man for a' that and Scotland is waking-up to the monstrosity that is Salmond's ego-vehicle, the SNP. Jock Labour, after the deadbeat, Jack McConnell

Honest, not invent, Jack McConnell when Labour's First Minister of Scotland.

and the hideous Wendy Fishmouth Alexander
is as revolting and rotten as ever;
skriking peroxide, sixty-year old bimbos like Mags "Dog" Curran, Cathy Jamieson and hatchet-faced thugs like Ian Gray
the current leader, are as vile as, well, as only JockLabour knows how to be vile and will make no inroads to non-Labour voters but may harden-up their existing caste, those who, despite the evidence of their own eyes and ears, believe that the Labour Party is something to do with the workers.

The JockLibs, even shorn of Smiling Jim, now Lord Wallace, a fatuous, ridiculous leader and coalition justice minister in the ruinously flawed mould of Jacqui SnotBuns Smith, are what you would expect, twittering McCleggies; led for the moment by Tavish McHooter, a Shetlandish aboriginal sixth-form mutant on a work-experience placement. And the Tories are the same Tories as before, unCameroned and unelectable this side of the border; crabbed, belligerent, anachronistic, a glance from ghoulish matron, Annabel Goldie. chosen after the previous leader, bent lawyer, David McLetchie, was caught charging me for taxis to his mistresss ' houses, and dumped, would sour the milk of human kindness, not that there's too much of that up here. Scottish Landowners, like that fluting nincompoop from Jethro Tull, Ian something, or His bin Lairdship, McMohamed al McFayed or the great humanitarian and great philanthropist Lord Terry Wogan of the BBC, may, if they have a vote up here, vote for The Matron but lawyers, thieves and gangsters, the Tories in Scotland are really and exclusively only in it for the money, they don't have a dog's chance.

skymadeupnewsandfilth, here, as down in England, have no interest in upsetting the status quo and as far as they are concerned the expenses scandal is done and dusted, no need to upset the apple cart further, they all drink together, play football together, give each other awards, go on holiday together, the press and the politicians. We'll have none of that independednt candidates standing here, thank you very much; you'll have the same as before, and like it, is the message of the trailblazing American-owned Herald and its groupy political writers and I say political writers in the loosest sense of the word or words, not much politics and the writing is largely recycled RadioFour news bulletins, even though all the bylines are award winners of one sort or another, shit-eating, probably.

Three Brians Taylor of the BBC is unstinting in his fearless admiration of all politicians, as is Iaiaiain McWhirter of the Herald. They are all in it to make life better for ordinary people, jolly decent folks on the whole, is what they say about their golf chums. And nary a word aboot the poor we child nonced by the sherrifs and the lawyers and the cops. Fuck me, no. This is Scotland, best part of England, take my hand, little girl, I'm a nonce in nonce paradise.

But anyway, a new poll in last Sunday's Scotland on Sunday has the gabshite, Alec Lardman, All-Scotland Eating Champion, languishing below Jock Labour and only a couple of double chins above the hapless, useless and normally irrelevant Jock Tories. Westminster projections are that the SNP will lose seats in the coming election. At Holyrood, the SNP is also down, based against a comparable YouGov poll in November. On the constituency vote, Labour has 33 per cent, the SNP has 28 per cent, while the Tories and the Lib Dems are locked on 16 per cent.

In Ishmaelia we voted, last time, for the Tribesmen; anything to be rid of McConnell and the skinflint ghost of Donald Dah-dah-dah-dah-Dewar, tight-fisted miserable misanthropic bastard, venting his spleen for being cuckolded by no less a socialist than Lord Derry Irving, the famous wallpapering Lord Chancellor and Cupid to Tony and Imelda Blair. The thieving git, Henry McLeish, in a precursor to the Westminster "expenses" criminal conspiracy was, even though he'd dun nothin' wrong, guv, retired, after a few months as First Minister, on a lifetime pension of a grand a week and the usuals and McConnell and his Mrs, propelled by mundanity into Bute House were helping themselves to everything they could get their hands on, including getting to pretend that he could add-up or string a sentence together. He appeared in New York, in the pinstripe kilt, making a laughing-stock of Scotland and validating young stanislav's claim that Scotland was a nation of inebriate, cross-dressing wife beaters, or at least two thirds of it. So Salmond and the Tribesmen were, as we now say, the only game in town. Tearful Tommy Sheridan and HIS bint, wotsername, Miss Mataland, FagAsh Lil, had completely obliterated the organised left in Scotland, bitter and squabbling as they were, they leavened, for a time, the puddingy, face-stuffing of Holyrood's elect - bent lawyers, bent councillors, bent union bums but post-Tommygate, the members' subs being spent on coke and whores, almost as though Sheridan was a US Congressman, the socialist banners were trampled in the shit, the pass sold, the cause lost. And so Salmond and Sturgeon it was.

But the soundbites grow dull; phrases snappy and sparkling a couple of years back now clunk, groan and fizzle. Shiny promises, stretching from here to the horizon, rust and ruin, now, like the Forth Bridge, which we cannot afford to replace, without borrowing from our borrowings, without spending next year's debt this year.

The public sector makes up nearly sixty per cent of what we call Scots GDP; if it was a ship it wouldn't float, if it was a horse they'd put it down. Salmond's preposterous Celtic Arc of Prosperity sees Iceland bankrupt, Eire bankrupt and the Scottish Executive bleating over a referendum about which no-one, save SNP careerist Tribesmen, gives a flying fuck. Cracking-on like William Wallace, Fat Alec is seen now in his true colours, a bloated, grasping, cowardly buffoon, a Westminster operator, come home to peddle the same old London bullshit, from tartan bottles.


Feather-bedded, comfy-cosy in the charmed circle of celebrity, remote from reality, Scotland's pretend prime minister has no answers for all the public sector workers about to lose their jobs, save to say should he - and Sean Connery and Donald Trump - be granted proper dominion over Scotland then nobody would ever have to go to work again.

The hatred of England is something cultivated over centuries by JockPower's nurserymen; they all go to English public schools and join English gentlemen's clubs whilst sashaying about at home in tartan of this or that ilk, the this or that Chieftans of this or that made-up clan, squiring and Lording it over some gathering of shitty fiddlers and maladroit accordionists, all the while despising wee, sickly Jock in his tenement, confusing him as to who or whom is his real enemy; for centuries the Jock labourer has been taught to hate the English labourer, the auld enemy, as though a gang of working class oiks- and not Hanoverians and Edinburghians - had conspired to bring about Culloden and the Union.

Maybe it's what we call globalisation or what we truncate as 24/7 media, maybe it's just the immediacy of Jock's affection for blogging and ranting, whatever it is, that SNP shit won't wash; written on a quiet shore in the North of Scotland, this little commentary, like so many, is read all across the globe, not by tribesmen or cousins or Lodge brethren; this is the world, made cyber, not Culloden, not Fort George, not Bannockburn. And it is to that fathomless, national grievance that London Alec Salmond alludes, time and again; preaching international brotherhood this obnoxious, grasping phony builds his house on enmity and division between we five million, here, and our fifty-five million nearest neighbours. Proclaiming Scotland's unique, heart-stopping, vast, empty, moody beauty, he sells it off, to carpetbaggers.

The polls come and go, advertising goodbye or hello from one gang of thieves or another, heralding political earthquake but nobody knows who votes or why or how and spurious national trends are ascribed to the random actions of millions. What is certain, however, is that in our time, the shelf-life of soundbiting politicians diminishes with their repetitious horseshit and with their exposure to that 24/7 scrutiny. Who, for instance, entertains a moment's illusion, now, about David Cameron? And Salmond is even more of a one-trick pony, as we flounder in ruin, he wants a referendum, a referendum, of course, will divert the stooges in the press, McWhirter and Taylor and all the gabshites on Jock Newsnight, it'll divert them from the grim reality of redundancy and closure and insolvency, of blighted retirements, of futures gutshot by bankers and economists and politicians, like Salmond, and his chums. Every morning the Jock broadsheets opine about what it means to be Scottish, no, really Scottish, what does it really mean? It beats working. And it saves, or has saved, Salmond from figuring out how to re-shape an economy with a dwindling taxbase and a population drinking itself to death, driven into addiction by a national melancholy inspired, craftily, by its rulers.

He came in on a small, ambiguous wave of curiosity but mainly of fatigue with the Lib-Lab shitfest. He night have built on it, learned to do something other than soundbiting but fat and indolent and self-satisfied he thought the first hurdle was the last one. The sizzle has gone, now, from his haggis; his neeps and tatties are cold and lumpy and he'll go out on a tide of dissatisfaction with his nineteenth century nationalist tub-thumping and his cynical reforestation of the political landscape with Jam-Tomorrow empty promises. There is unlikely to be a huge Labour revival, nor a LibDem, McHooter-inspired surge but enough, however, are pissed with Salmond to send him to the Holyrood equivalent of the backbenches, soundbiting his fat wee head off. And serve him right.

London Alec Salmond, doing what he's good at,
scratching his heid and putting on weight.