Ha Ha, Ho Ho, Hee Hee

 

Peter Morrell, former Chief Executive of the Scottish National Party, was arrested yesterday in connection with embezzling Party funds, under the 3 year police investigation dubbed Operation Branchform.

Media are advised not to comment as this is now a matter of Court process. So, just a quick reminder, then - an Independence activist badgered the Police into investigating the disappearance of funds amounting to over £600,000 raised for another referendum on Scotland leaving the United Kingdom. Many goods were seized by the police in an unprecedented police raid on the home of the former Chief Executive of the SNP and his wife, the former first minister, Nicola Sturgeon, and a very expensive motor home was impounded by the police from the driveway of Peter Morrell's mum. Rather than commenting on the distressing circumstances now coming down on the SNP, here's an imagined conversation between two imaginary characters on the eve of the police raid. I ran it last April, and thought you might be amused by a second reading.

MONDAY 10 APRIL 2023

A Thistle Jig of Shit

Ah, a life on the open road, the wind blawin up ma kiltie, I deserve it, hen, after a' these years, toilin' fer the peeple, lang oors in stuffy rooms, handies blistered frae pullin on the levers o state.

An' you, get ye oot an awa' frae the ungrateful bastards an accoontants an journalists (spits).
They have nae appreeciashun for the fine edges an walkin' the line between tha' wee gabshitie wi the earing an tha' superstitious wifie frae the Islands - the cheek o her, wantin' to take ower frae you, step into your stilettoes,

squeeze her lustful, roonded, milk-filled juggies intae yer pretty little suities................

Ah, but the matchie tartan face maskie was such a grand fashion statement, showed aff yer bog-brush hair-cut.
Nay, lassie, it won't be a £40 grand piece o shit, just load o plywood an teak-effect plastic shoved inside big, noisy Citroen diesel van, bangin an fuckin clatterin to wake they Labour voters, engine sound like stanislav shakin set of spanners inside biscuit tin, with shit cassette under feet. I'll no' have to go and stumble round in dark, thistly wilderness while you tak a wee dumpie in van and vice versie. Look, top o' range camper van. Joined together in holy deadlock was fine when we was sitting pretty in Holyrood on top of all the money but is only for sick and health and rich or poor and not for content of bowels, we're no' Liberal Democrats.

Awa' an' bile yer heed, yer dam' stupid ex-Chief Exec, I'll nae go near yer mobile toilet. How would it look in car crash, shit flying all ower the shop an' bog roll, only not proper bog roll but that stuff, thin and cold, IZAL, good for fuck all, not even for wiping of arsehole; every bastard with mobile home has IZAL toilet paper. Is bad enough take dump in van like fucking Englishman but then can’t even wipe Former First Ministerial pass clean but instead smear shit all over bottom, or finger go through and get all filthied-up with spread-out bit of shit, better would be with handful of grass from roadside and never mind IZAL trick bogroll. Manufacturer of IZAL is rolling about on floor, laughing off bollocks at mobile home driver and boy scoot.

But, ma sweet former First Minister, we can pull in by a lochside and you can make me a cup of smug tea and nae milk because I am watching my cholesterol and I drink Fairtrade tea because I like to think that everytime I have a cuppa some money is going to those huge traditionally-built women in Botswanaland, even though it isn’t.

Ye can mak yer ain tea, if smirking gay crewcut Polis Scotland lets ye oot o jail lang enough. I'm nae tea-wifie. Fred West had a fucking camper van an' look at him, spent his spare time choppin' people up, squeeze into box and bury under patio, like on Brookside. Fred was made mad having to cope with life inside rubbish camper van, driving round Forest of fucking Dean, banging fucking head and choking on shit fumes and pots and pans falling out from cupboard every bend, no fucking wonder was serial killer. Was very nice bloke by all accounts, apart from being raving lunatic and him and Rose killing people, mainly children.

But, ma shouty wee dwarfie, it might become politically expedient to hae an exit strategy an' become better acquainted with the beauties of the Heelands and Islands of oor magnificent nation.

Are ye serious, ye bald fat wee git? We havenae dualled the A9 yet.

Ma dear wee gurrul, jes' as high as ma heart, the £110 grand camper van we'll be tourin' in has a bicycle compartment to hold a bicycle for me an' one fer ye. We can park by a loch and cycle through our Heather and Gorse lands, wi' nae worries aboot goin' to work....... nae need to rush the gorse.....

Ye want to join they band o' nutters who jump on a bicycle and pedal like demented hobgoblin speedfreaks up the highest roads in the country shouting Gimme A Fucking Heart Attack, I Can’t Stand Being A Teacher For Another Twenty Years! Driving in Highlands is rubbish anytime (we needed the upgrade money for trams in Edinburgh where the voters are) but filled-up in Summer with Herman lesbian Hells Angel and demented lunatic nutters on bikes and smug bastards in camper vans is like something off Prisoner programme with Patrick McGoohan, dead now, of course, but was nearly a hundred and so never mind. An ye better get used to it - that Prisoner programme.

How can I put this, my wee Pigmy of stature but possessor of Giant propensities, we may need to get out of Dodge fast. In this case, Glasgae. A lonely mountainside, in pitch black, the twa o us an a wee pup, a Greyfriars Bobby, is looking like the better option.

Ye're going frae bad tae fucking worse, ye Fat SilverFox Retired Loony. Is not just poxy shit van clogging-up Afucking9 and can’t even stop in layby because of too many smug old bastards like you sitting at table outside van, drinking FairfuckingTrade cuppa, not too strong and made with pissmilk and handful of sweetener for heart and horrid old legs all fucked-up with varicose veins and every bastard can see because of shorts or kilties, even though brass bollocks would freeze-off from monkey, up there in Highlands. No fucker wants to see countryside all fucked up with horror show of pasty old bastards sunbathing in fucking public and probably piles hae got, too, all aroond arsie, and maybe hanging-out, from sitting outside in kilties with fucking gale blowing up arsie from Arctic fucking Circle and mean tight-fisting use of Izal joke bogroll (but isn’t roll but leaves of piss-thin hard shiny so-call toiletpaper) and good for fuck all is and not only hand goes through and gets covered-up in shit but fucking watertap in van is nae working and nae matter if ye stand with aarsie cheeks as far apart as possible which is not very far, as we are nae Liberal Democrats, and keeping shitfinger hand up in air and trying hard not to do breathing-in and stomping on little foot switch to make water come and at least can wash fucking shit off from hand but instead of water coming from tap fucking hazard light is coming on instead. And radio. Is Radio Scotland an' is just dreadful noise of bagpipe, fuck me, sounds like massacre in cat sanctuary, run by mad old lady who is dead in living room from hypothermia from Westminster Fuck-Up Economy, spent all money on Kit-E-Kat and cruel, wicked bastard at Scottish fucking Gas has cut off power and local nutter with chainsaw bought from car boot sale has seized golden opportunity an' old lady’s assorted cats disembowlered is being, one at a time, by giggling nutter, Here, Kitty-Kitty, Here Kitty- Kitty so even cats not actually being mutilated to death is all freaked out and screeching and climbing up curtains, Radio Scotland bagpipe concert is worse than massive cat massacre.

Time is running out, ma wee Princess of the Steamie, Drastic action needs tae be ta'en an' I'm the man to rise to a Crisis, trust me. There's some lovely little villages in the hills around Inverness.......

What? Go down Clackmacfuckery Village Hall tae the tea-dance, tae listen to some fat old fucker playing a wheezy old accordion, made oot o' shiny tin and plastic and sackin' and hunnerds o' fucking keys and buttons so many that playing it must be hit and fucking miss like an Oompah band from the Black Forest, but backwards. And watch decrepit old boys in wigs and false teeth and kilties seducing old wifies and feeling-up bony old aarsies before the bus comes tae tak them back to the Hame. The one wi' the Polish nurses. And would ye be doin’ me the honour of having the next Polka with me, Jings, but you’re a right bonny lass, indeed y’are, he leers, at a spindle-thin, one foot in the grave, ninety year old, the dirty filthy old bastard. Then it'll be back to the van frae Hell, hazard light flashing off and on, nightmare noise from radio, and can’t wash hand or wipe aarsie and would be better off dead, or at very least wanting to get back in fucking Polis Scotland's cells where there's a flushing toilet (the polis watch you tak a crap in your cell in the toilet with nae seat and then hit the flush switch from ootside the door); so ye'll hae to go outside wi yer kiltie tucked around yer waist and grab handfuls of grass and wipe aarsie and fingers like the fucking savage ye are and fucking van cost £110 fucking grand and every bastard knows that grass up aarsie is the primary cause of piles, especially when is not even fucking grass but fucking thistle. And people going past in proper car all shouting and hooting, Look at silly old Ex Chief Exec sticking thistle up aarsie, must be demented, maybe attempting suicide by anal lacerations off thistle, is fucking really mad, fuck me, don’t wanna get that dementia rubbish and run around like loony, with kiltie up roond waist and thistle and nettles up aarsie and shit on fingers.
Best thing in situation like this is stick shitty fingers in ground and keep on stabbing until hand is covered in just dirt and not shit and can touch clothing, then remove kiltie and wipe off  aarsie and when no-one is passin' in proper car, throwaway in hedge, only not where dog, Bobby, can go and pull out and start to eat and maybe get sporran stuck over head and normal bastard, going past in proper car, is on mobile phone to cop and RSPCA, Allo? Allo? ….Is polis? Right… SeeYouJimmy?..... Is fucking pervert here, on A9, and dog has got head in sporran and poo…. Nah, is not skidmark,……is proper poo…dunno…..might be dogpoo…but might be yuman poo…bloke looks like fucking nutter an' thistle has sticking out from aarsie…I know….all sorts takes,….but fuck me, Jesus….an' shit has got all over hand….no….is not car…is van….with awning and elevating roof….is some foreign shit…..is Niesmann + Bischoff, Yeah, is plumbervan, all filled up with plywood furniture and things that don’t work. Better come and arrest him, aye, before he starts sticking yon fucking thistles up the puir wee dog’s ….Aye, Edinburgh by the look o' him.

So, former First Minister wifie, will ye nae come and hae a wee lookie at it? I've parked it round ne maw's, discrete-like?
That'll be a no, then? You'd rather go on our usual S and M holiday, dress-up in leather and rubber and plastic and smack my aarsie wi thistles?

Now, that's beginning to persuade me - nae danger of falling-off bicycle, probably even have proper toilet in S and M hotel and nae shit cassette, sliding about, under driving seat; is much easier than this shit and not cost £110 grand and then £3 grand for bikes to tie on back. No, bike on back of grossed-out plumbervan with inoperating integral sanitation and plywood furniture and trick toilet paper, is all bollocks.

Too late, now, anyway, hen.