Last weekend, the dreadful Guardian newspaper reported that the entertainer, Paul McCartney, has put his name to an open letter which quite clearly accepted the dubious validity of the Referendum, the exclusivity of it’s electorate and the finality of its result, if any; McCartney also said that he loved Scotland and hoped that it would remain part of the United Kingdom; as a law-abidng, tax-paying, generally blameless citizen of what is still our country, McCartney was entirely within his rights in expressing a widely-held and perfectly legitimate point of view.
Within a very short space of time, however, the Guardian’s comments section was blitzed by – at the last time of looking – more than a thousand comments from those who claim to speak for Scotland; I am as Scottish as any in the land, as Danish as any in these islands and these people certainly do not speak for me or anyone I know or would care to know.
McCartney’s music was rubbish, they chanted, Rubbish-Rubbish-Rubbish, ignorant of spelling and punctuation, much less crochets and quavers, and because his music is so bad, people must vote Yes; he dyes his hair, therefore people must vote Yes; he disgustingly married a one-legged woman; he’s a pervert; he’s not as good as was John Lennon; he’s a filthy vegetarian; a filthy tax-dodger, he looks older than he did when he was younger; and more wrinkly, he has wrinkles, vote Yes; he married an American, twice, he married two Americans; he had the cheek to come and live in Scotland; what better reason could there be for voting Yes, someone in showbusiness dyeing their hair?
All these insults were delivered as though they were brilliantly scintillating one-liners honed by some Heavenly satirist when what they were was filth. As well as the personal abuse, those claiming to speak for the nation which has given us The Proclaimers and the Bay City Rollers offered endless, turgid, infantile re-writings of Yellow Submaine and Yesterday, revealing only the fatuity and charmlessness of their authors. This, nationalism's finest hour, was playground politics, the retards, ranting.
Neither spontaneous nor sincere, this epidemic of cyber-abuse is Hitlerian, appealing to the very, very worst, the darkest, the cruellest and most vindictive parts of our nature, this is not an invigorating People’s engagement which we should celebrate, this is fascism’s harbinger, McCartney, as was 1930’s European Jewry, cast as sub-human, degenerate, untermenschen.
And nor is it just Paul McCartney who is so ill-treated, misrepresented and blackguarded by these illiterate, emotionally stunted and politically obtuse cyber bullies, it is any who dare disagree, any who see little difference between Alec Salmond, David Cameron, Ed Milliband or Mr Carmichael’s notional and temporary boss, Nick Wotsisname, all of whom learnt their larcenous, grimy, rabble-rousing skills in the subsidised bars and bondage parlours of Westminster, all of whom have far more in common with each other than with the rest of us. Unless you believe that Salmond is the way, the truth and the light you are unworthy, Scottish Nationalism, laughably immature.
Culloden be damned, New Salmondia is just another device to divide today’s working people one from another; a separated United Kingdom, North and South, will prove GlobaBank’s even more obedient, supplicant handmaiden. Could anyone in history kow-tow more abjectly to Donald Trump than did Mr Salmond? There is no socialist agenda in Holyrood. I back-tracked just one of the Guardian’s grubbily anonymous BeatleBashers and in just thirty days he had managed to post one thousand five hundred abusive, anonymous comments, fifty per day, one wonders what he will do with his time, post-referendum.
Paul McCartney can fend for himself but many, traduced, defamed and bullied by cowardly, anonymous cyberthugs will be anxious, asking themselves the question – as should we all - if Nationalism is such a good thing, why is its voice so harsh, so cruel, and so bitter? And who would live within its triumphant, raucous and cruel earshot?