|The Floating Heads installation by Sophie Cave at the Kelvingrove, Glasgow|
In Kenmure Street, Glasgow, following sustained protest by Glaswegian citizens, Police Scotland released two men lawfully detained by UK Immigration Enforcement officials. Nicola Sturgeon took the opportunity, of course, to criticise UK immigration policy and its procedures in detaining migrants who have exhausted all legal routes to remain in this country and are scheduled for deportation to their own country, having failed to satisfy the criteria for becoming citizens of this country. Aamer Anwar, scary smug lawyer bastard, has been all over the media with his rabble-rousing soundbite: "no human being is illegal". Heaven only knows what he thinks he means by that, nor, indeed, how it applies in the situation of two would-be migrants, disappointed in their bid to stay in this country. Anwar,
SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND.
and with elegant, soaring, modern - post-modern? -
almost futuristic structures;
if you haven't been, do go and have a look,
the drive through the city on the M8 could be a Computer Generated Image from a Hollywood blockbuster, so dramatic, it looks as though it can't possibly be real.
and it's re-invented riversides, creates a vague sense of Greatness dormant. If only the tribesmen would celebrate, re-awaken this slumbering potential, you'd have to love them for it; instead, their bitter sermon is one of rank, fathomless Grievance, Nicola Sturgeon
|Labour capo, Johann Lamont, I-Know-Besting. Would you just look at her?|
|Salmond with one of his many paymasters, the great Scot, |
on the other hand,
with Dali's St. John of the Cross,
is a series of dreams, glimpses - artistic, mechanical,
scientific, architectural - of what we all could be.
The betrayal of labour by Labour is not unique to Scotland, fuck, no, but it has been more entrenched, its bitter jigs and reels of deceit more compellingly danced, reinforced by the hand-clapping rhetoric of scoundrels. Scotland, short-sightedly, if understandably, used to love Labour but it's all over now, Labour's operatives scarecrow men and women, stuffed into cheap suits, fitted with a repetitive, useless bird scarer whose batteries flatten further with leader, Johann Lamont's, every dismal, contradictory utterance, an opposition more ornamental, more ceremonial than challenging. If Salmond and Sturgeon simply did what for them is unthinkable and for the next year shut the fuck up, Labour's Lamont and her band of sweaty, stuttering idiots would deliver them an overwhelming vote for independence.
Glasgow, anyway, is a different place. Edinburgh is a fine, big posh place, but its like a tart's boudoir, crawling with MacMediaMinster pimps, hacks, writers and upper crust, estate agent and banker type crooks; crawling with snooty whores in Crombie overcoats, their gross, Kirsty Wark noses in the air. Not for me, although the Royal Mile is well worth an open topped 'bus ride. Glasgow seems honest by comparison and seems much more.
Glasgow, more than many such places, grew wealthy on the slave trade, building ships for the Confederacy during the American Civil War, vigorously owning and trading her own chained niggers; Glasgow's mercantile class was as vile as any other, as bad, worse than to-day's banksters; oh, some of them endowed museums and galleries and parks but that's the equivalent of that cunt, Geldof and his filthy crew, re-colonising Africa for their own reputations and record sales. Living conditions in Glasgow were - and remain - so poor that the city spawned the Labour party to write its wrongs. That Glasgow may soon headbutt Jock Labour into oblivion seems quite poetic.
Glasgow is like any other post-industrial, Victorian Hellhole, a shopping and leisure centre, flogging consumer tat and bogus culture. It has a few shipyards but most are gone and unlike as has happened in Aberdeen, old industries have not been replaced by the fossil fuel jamboree in the North Sea - I sometimes travel through Aberdeen airport when a shift is changing, riggers and such, going home to Manchester and the South East, gross and vulgar men, snaking in a queue, looking and sounding like tarmackers-in-Transits, rejected from Big Fat Gipsy Wedding as being too vile even for that horror show. I couldn't care less if they all lost their jobs and never worked again. But that's in passing, many in Glasgow have never worked at all, Labour spent generations keeping them beholden and now the Tribesmen are doing the same thing.
The great traction city London has been skulking in the hills to avoid the bigger, faster, hungrier cities loose in the Great Hunting Ground. Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve
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