Och Aye The Noo And Au Revoir

The Upsides of Scottish Independence

UPDATE: We previously claimed here to regret our decision to publish: a statement which we have since chosen to retract. The Saint recognises the offence this article has caused. The author’s intent was to satirise those who participate in an ill-informed manner in the Scottish Independence debate.

In order to maintain transparency, this article remains undeleted in its original form.

Some say there’s a special place in hell reserved for Nicola Sturgeon, but I reckon she’d get turned away at the door for being too scary. Apparently, Satan thinks she’d put Beelzebub off his cornflakes. Denied the pleasure of frolicking in the flames, and never one to take “No” for an answer, the lovely Ms Sturgeon has evidently decided to make Hell a place on Earth, and turn the once green and pleasant(-ish) land of Scotland into the ultimate Braveheart tribute act (sponsored by Heineken 0.0, naturally). That’s my take on it anyway; I’ve yet to hear a more logical explanation for Scotland’s startling descent into tartan-clad madness that doesn’t involve an industrial accident at the Irn-Bru factory.

It’s the pettiness that really hurts. As an Englishman (go on, Angus McIlliterate, just you send that complaint email), I really can’t understand it. Why is every public utility plastered with Saltires? Why do you have seemingly 20,000 alternative NHS apps all with ‘Scotland’ in the title? Why can’t I buy booze after ten? At least the first two are half-amusing: quaint local customs with Lilliputian undertones. As for my third complaint… well, need I say any more? Nicola Sturgeon must be the only politician who ever looked at Saudi Arabia’s nightlife and said, “I want a piece of that action.” Watch out—it’ll be corporal punishments for ginger jokes next. At this rate, if she could channel top shagger Olly Cromwell and ban Christmas, she probably would —except he’s English, and that would probably trigger that aneurysm she’s been brewing. So what’s to be done?

To start with, I should probably make it clear that I’m no expert. I’m not actually sure what Holyrood is, don’t understand the Barnett formula, and probably couldn’t find the Orkneys on a map. But I’d say this lack of knowledge is actually an asset: it puts me on the level of the average voter, who doesn’t seem to understand either. So let’s dumb the whole thing down a bit, shall we?

I like to think of England and Scotland as a middle-aged couple living in the suburbs. The mutual hatred is palpable. They did a pretty good job with the children—the world’s sexiest Empire, modern Industry, and parliamentary democracy—but now the children are gone, and all that’s left is a menopausal Scotland, England (who’s having a midlife crisis), and the family dog, Wales. The cracks are beginning to show: England has just bought a Harley Davidson but no crash helmet (Brexit), and Scotland has turned to pills (Glasgow). Something has got to give—it’s been separate bedrooms since 1997 (or Devolution as they call it). Somebody needs to bite the bullet and move out. Scotland, incidentally, thinks it should be her: she wants to run away and join her French lover, Emmanuel McRon, in the sensual paradise of a Brussels Travelodge. Ideally, Scotland would quite like to fleece England for all he’s worth and leave him paying the mortgage (National Debt). England, meanwhile, is being a bit of a mug and still tries to make an effort once in a while—although Michael Gove in an Aberdeen nightclub didn’t really have the intended aphrodisiac effect.

Frankly, England needs to stop being a mug. Let’s beat the SNP at their own game, and boot them out of the Union. Unilateral divorce. Even better, let’s have an affair. After all, Scotland is a bit old and saggy by now—that’s what a millennium of rain and haggis does to a country. England’s next partner should definitely be a bit younger. I’m thinking a night of passion with Mozambique, or a tryst with Turkmenistan. Admittedly, South Sudan is probably a bit on the young side, but at a spritely 23 East Timor is now an option. A bit of wife swapping could also work—I’m sure the Spanish would take a Catalonia/Scotland trade. Just think of it—sun, sand, and cheap drinks—all the things that Scotland can’t give us anymore. Living the single life would also free England (and Wales—we keep the dog) from all the burdensome duties that come with living with the Scots. We’d no longer have to feign knowledge of Rabbie Burns and Walter Scott or pretend that Shinty is a real sport. Sure, we’d lose the whisky and shortbread, but that’d hardly be fatal. The Scots, on the other hand, would have to face the music, especially if we manage to saddle them with Northern Ireland (the proverbial hot potato).

Decades of bluster would be exposed in minutes—how exactly would Nicola’s new society of alcohol-free Gaelic androids survive without English money and common sense? I’m no prophet, but I reckon it will make for great viewing on the 10 oclock news. The smugness will be palpable as we watch Scotland descend back into the deep-fried gloom from which we once rescued her. Of course, there will always be a slight twinge of regret: it’s never easy to move on, especially after 315 years. But as it stands, Scotland needs a bit of tough love to bring her down a peg or two.

Image: First Minister of Scotland / Flickr