dedalus Posted April 30, 2010 Share Posted April 30, 2010 (edited) Aye, aweel, the Highlands and the Islands carry the ancient feel of lost Dal Riada, that peaty smell of the combined old kingdom, traces of Naisí and the Sons of Usnach. It's not for me to hate them Lowland gomerils who shtew and shpit their venom ... pa-thwook, rushing in to count their wee fuckin pennies, rushing out to support the Glasga Rangers. Shprkk! (an indefinable throaty Scottish sound). I believe the reason many modern young Scots who never bled a drop for Wallace, who never had to face Cumberland's cannons at Culloden, dislike the English ... it's so ingrained ... has much to do with mortification, the self-flagellation of their grandpapas, those outraged bouncing eyebrows, sniffing noses, jutting jaws: the shared ecstacy of pain. Pain is guid, mo chuisle. Make a friend of pain or ye'll gan all soft like a Sassenach: it's true ye cannae push all the pebbles of blame outside along with the cat, with the steaming chamber pots, nor reach for skirling bagpipes, nor haul on yer kilts and to hell with what's under them, while throwing stones at the train from Carlisle and hissing at English tourists. Ah, the regiments: Ypres and the Somme, Waterloo before that, the Crimea, Juno Beach: the pipe sergeant and the kilties. Spend all of ten long years building a Parllyament, in which naturally enough, nothing happens. Gang the whoo da wha. Snort. Spit in your neighbour's porridge, search for further avenues of deprivation, split Presbyterianism into even colder shards. The more it fuckin hurts the more Scots ye'll be. Fight for England. Best pain of all. Culloden, aye, aweel, that was ... that was the Boyne of Scotland. Charluss, the pink-cheeked Bonnie Wee Prince, an idiot, a dynastic disaster, a foppish fool, simply slipped off awa' to France, leaving the clans to suffer the noose and the lash: never put thy trust in princes. Play a pibroch on the pipes, play the Flowers of the Forest for the many young lads, play it slowly and lowly, not for the Taliban ministers of the kirk but for the last of the Afghans in the UK. Edited May 1, 2010 by dedalus Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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