source – Wingo at When Saturday Comes.
EXCEPTIONAL ENGLAND PUT BAYONET TO SCOTCH BAGPIPES 3-1
As anyone in possession of a wireless, television set or a freshly ironed newspaper could not have failed to notice in recent months, it was put to the Scotch by way of a referendum that they might consider the prospect of independence. One only needs to look at a map of the British Isles, that serene, sedentary body sitting dominant at the centre of the globe, to realise that Scotland is no more than the hair upon the head of the United Kingdom. Were it to choose to be sheared from the body upon which it depends for growth and life, it could no more hope to survive and thrive than could the sweepings of a barber shop’s floor.
However, the question was put to the Scotch in entirely disinterested and impartial terms by their English masters.
“ATTENTION, THE SCOTCH. Do you propose to stay within the realm, labouring at the behest of Her Majesty, so that you might enjoy food, warmth, security, shelter, free access to goods and services, the protection of the world’s finest army and be left unmolested and in peace to toss cabers and so forth to your heart’s content? If so, vote “NO” to independence.
“ALTERNATIVELY, do you wish to go it alone, resulting in isolation, cut off from English civilisation and its boons (remember those colour television sets that first reached you just ten or so years ago?) a return to Bronze Age austerity, an endless winter of bloody inter-clan warfare in which the heads of your male elders are set on pikes, in which you are forced to subsist on peat soup, and, when that runs out, obliged to deep-fry your own babies in giant vats in order to last through the winter? Then vote YES.”
For the latter choice, at my suggestion in a telegram to Mr Cameron, a 2p charge for administrative expenses was imposed. It was doubtless this factor above all which ensured that the churlishly frugal Scotch voted resoundingly for the “NO” option.
And so, the Scotch remain subjects of the Kingdom – Pictish pariahs, of course but members of the Union and, like the Welsh, a welcome reminder of evolutionary staging posts one has long passed in order to attain English eminence. A few tips, however, to those thinking of flouting the advice of the Foreign Office and visiting the country.
BEWARE OF MIDGES. They are particularly active in summer. I refer to short, squat, ginger-haired little Scotchmen in public houses squeaking incomprehensible imprecations. Stand well back from them, as they are liable to leap up when riled and try to punch you in the testicles.
WHEN LIFTING UP A SCOTCHMAN’S KILT to see what he wears beneath it, be sure to shield the eyes of your womenfolk and children. The sight is quite rancid and beggars description.
TAKE VITAL SUPPLIES with you when venturing across the Scotch border. These should include basic sanitary items, edible comestibles, a phrase book, a purse of brown coins for tipping purposes and, above all, plenty of heroin. It is simply impossible to endure life in Scotland without ingesting vast quantities of heroin.
Such were the wild-eyed, feral creatures against which England were ranged throughout. The National Anthem was the measure of the disparity. England’s eleven men sang it like lusty, ejaculating cocks erect, for Her Majesty to drink in at her pleasure. Naturally, it then should have been played again for the Scotch team, in light of the recent vote. However, in a studied act of insubordination, doubtless perpetrated by some spiritual descendant of the treacherous Wallace, an alternative ditty was selected – “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers”, or suchlike. For although the game was played on home territory – the Celtic Park Stadium is British, and therefore to all intents and purposes English – the mood of the locals was seething, hostile, as if they resented the running water, electricity and increase of life expectancy to 47 years old that the Union had brought their country.
The game began at a cracking pelt, with England benefitting from the use of an UEFA approved football as opposed to the haggis that is customary in the Scotch leagues. The eight o’ clock kick off, meanwhile, seemed to induce a panic and anxiety among the Scotland team, concerned that they might only be able to fit in an hour’s drinking before closing time come the final whistle. It was a measure of how lightly England took the fixture that James Milner was given a start, the equivalent of noted beat group The Beatles allowing Ringo Starr to sing on one or two songs per album. Wayne Rooney took up a Wayne Rooney-shaped shape in the forward line; Stewart Downing crowned a superlative 45 minutes with a single crossfield ball which went out into touch, while Jack Wilshere did what he does best; be Jack Wilshere, anus jutted, ready to fall over at a moment’s notice for the cause. Chris Smalling showed why he should justifiably change his name to “Chris Bigging”, so effectively did he quell the Scottish attack, doing the job a maypole could have done hardly less effectively.
As for the clueless, malnourished Scotch, darting about the pitch with the confused agitation of badgers chivvied from their dens during daylight hours, there is little that can be said. They had a Chris Martin upfront; however, no one in the world knows the names of those playing alongside him.
Before long, England had taken the lead. “In defence God me defend” is the Scottish motto; given their application of said dictum in the back four, it might as well have been “Let’s go to bed early on New Year’s Eve, eh?” A second was added in the second half by Rooney himself, “Captain Potato”, before the Scotch were allowed to dance through the English defence and register a goal themselves. They reckoned without the cunning of the likes of Cahill and Sterling, however – since Scotland voted to stay in England in the recent referendum, the goal effectively made it 3-0 to Rooney’s men. He himself made it four just moments later, with the entire Scotch team having repaired to the stadium bar to mistakenly celebrate their own effort.
Another triumph to be notched up to the Kingdom, then, and surely proof that the Scotch people, in voting against independence to were right to acknowledge their own, fundamental inferiority. Tonight, their midfield and back four were like ghillies ably assisting their English masters on a stag hunting expedition. They were as right to do so as we were right to dismantle Scotland’s entire manufacturing base. For where there is industry, there is the potential for socialism; and, when socialism flourishes, industry suffers, so industry must be destroyed in order to be saved. This is English thinking at its finest, and it is to the good that the Scotch have seen sense and paid heed to it.