North Of The Border Spitefulness.

The neo-nazified state of Scotland, the country who wants its independence from the suckling love of the Union of Great Britain, as it seems sunk to a new low.  I personally cannot wait until the day comes when we can cast off the dead weight of this Pictish moorland desert as long as we can station the British Army on the border to disallow any of those northern people from trespassing onto beautiful England where they have made up the accursed lowlife of our major cities for generations.

Let me tell you a story about this Neanderthal country and its ruling classes; a true story that only happened recently but has been years in the making.  A good friend of mine from Altrincham way, in leafy Cheshire, a man who has spent his whole life trying to put right the wrongs committed by civilised and uncivilised states and in fact runs an organization called Prisoners of Conscience, which tries to help people all over the world who have stood against injustice and political bullying and have been penalised for their fight for right, has been shit on again from a great height by Salmond’s slaverers north of the border.

I have written before about Mr Timothy Rustige’s tribulations at the hands of these Caledonian fudgers who make up the Scottish National Party, who rule Scotland and have made it into the most lawless society outside of North Korea in the modern world.

Timothy, for it has been claimed by these kilt lifters and in particular by a pretty odious bitch of their ilk, a Mrs Elish Angiolini,  has supposedly scared the living daylights out of her for daring to suggest that when she was removed from her lofty position of Lord Advocate of Scotland after years of protecting high class pervert and paedophile jocks of both the lowland and highland varieties, was not the right man for the job of Principal of St Hugh’s College in Oxford.

She, this scrawny arsed paedophile protector, was so scared of Timothy’s mindful thoughts on her get out of jail free ticket, that she along with her Grampian groupies had Timothy or Rusty as he is known to his mates, summoned to appear in court in Aberdeen, which is about 200 miles further north than you really want to go in that god forsaken country, to explain to his betters, they of the legal fraternity, why he had the criminal intent of stalking and interfering with Angiolini’s god given right to fuck up everything she touches.

Rusty prepared carefully, licking his lips at the thought of parading Angiolini’s stained knickers to the public at large and with Robert Green in tow to give evidence, another martyr to Angiolini’s search for world domination and another Cheshire man to boot.  What have the Gramps got against Cestrian stock and fair play?

His day or two days in court was to be in November 2013, not the most pleasant month to be up where the sun don’t shine.  So he packed a large suitcase with enough warm cloths to last him five years, the minimum sentence in Aberdeen for thinking scrawny arsed non-menstruating mammals like Angiolini should not be retired to well paid sinecures for helping shirt lifters and paedo-shaggers to put their pricks back into their y-fronts

The date set was a Monday at the Granite City bar, so Rusty ordered, more in hope than good judgement, a return rail ticket from off the internet, a lot cheaper than turning up at the station on the day and buying one at the kiosk.  He also booked himself into a local dosshouse in Aberdeen for his three night extravaganza.  Don’t forget this was not the first time he had been summoned to Aberdeen, he had been up and down like a yo-yo to this infernal place, he knew all the high spots and he was going to have a good time, probably the last good time he would ever have.  He feared five years incarceration would do no good for his dickey ticker.  Pardon me for using such a low adjective.

Anyway dickey ticker or not he was all set and raring to go, when on the Friday afternoon, prior to the Monday, at about 4.30 pm, he was informed by his solicitor that the Sheriff Principal who was going to hear the case had gone down with a severe attack of the droop, which he had contracted after an intimate in camera session with scrawny arsed pit bull Angiolini and this droop was going to stop all social contact with everybody until 2014 by which time the mercury tablets he was prescribed for his transmitted disease would have done the trick and make him feel rosy all over.

Rusty, perplexed and annoyed at this latest ploy by the Govan Gauleiter, applied to the Scottish Court Service for his own non-refundable costs caused by this postponement.  It amounted to £429.34p.  He was still an innocent party who had been put to expense for no fault of his own.  So imagine his surprise when he received a letter on Friday 13th December, an ominous day by any reckoning.  It was from another branch of the Scottish Gestapo, Anderson Strathern, solicitors to the Scottish Court Service and it told Rusty to piss off with his claim, he should have booked his tickets on a refundable basis allowing for this attack of in camera droop which can be caught by anybody in close contact with Angiolini.  The letter was signed with a smirk by no less a scot than Scott Flannigan, solicitor.  A music hall act who is destined for high office in the future state of Dunniewassal on Oil.

So while Rusty now regrets his eagerness to charge the tartan courts as little as possible, he at least now has a firm date for his rearranged court appearance, which is 24th – 28th February 2014.  The case is set for five days now instead of the original two days, presumably the droop must have slowed down the Sheriff Principal considerably.

He is also ruminating on the idea of hitching up to Aberdeen on the 23rd February with a copy of the Telegraph newspaper.  It will make a nice blanket for a five night stay on a park bench, before he is beckoned to the bliss of a jail cell in the local caboose.  Either that or ignoring completely his order to appear in court and wait for the strong arm of a Grampian posse to decend on his little home in Altrincham, they know where it is having been before.  They, this skirted flying squad, will drive him up to Aberdeen in limousinal comfort and offer him luxury accommodation in a police cell for the duration of his neo-Nuremberg hearing.

6 thoughts on “North Of The Border Spitefulness.

  1. Well said, Paul, but it must be said that the overwhelming majority of Scots have been amazingly and courageously supportive, even when I was in prison. Like every nation, Scotland has its share of nasty, power-mad individuals. It is just unfortunate that Scotland`s rubbish has been allowed to float to the top.

    Robert Green

  2. That seems a strange article coming from an Irishman. Scotland and Ireland, being both part of the celtic regions of the British Isles, have a lot in common, not least their long history of being shafted by England. And in fact the Scots came from Ireland (via Argyll – i.e. Ard-Gael, the peninsula of the Gaels) beginning in about the 9th century. Most of the western half, at least, of Scotland is strongly influenced by its Irish heritage.

    Surely, Paul, as a good Irishman we are entitled to expect from you the traditional anti-English rant, and not an attack on fellow Celts.

    (I will claim strict neutrality here. I am English, my husband is Scottish, one of my great grandmothers was Irish, and another one was Welsh.)

    1. Linda,
      I can pick you up on only one thing and just to remind you I did Archaeology at Galway University; if Irish people came to Scotland in the 9th century they were not Celts. There is no evidence of a Celtic influx into Ireland ever, their only influence was by trade and elite marriage.
      What we have in Scotland is a mixed breed of Pictish tatie hoakers, 19th century Italian icecream makers and bemused Nordic fishermen, which leads me to think that I can say what the hell I like about these bastard Scottish cross dressers who think it wonderful to go to a dance in a skirt.
      How can you claim to be English with that genetic mongrelled history. You are going to tell me next you are Roman having descended from St Patrick, via Armagh and Pembrokeshire.
      Anyway Linda, a happy Christmas to you and yours.

  3. By saying “I am English” I mean that I was born in England. I completely agree with you that the English are a mongrel race.

    But I think that you need to read up a bit on Scottish history. If we go back to Roman times, or thereabouts, the inhabitants of Scotland were Picts (in the NE) and Britons (who were much the same as the Welsh) in the south. The language of the former is not known, but the latter spoke a Brittonic form of Celtic. (The old name for Scotland, Alba, is a Brittonic word, and I’ll digress a little here, because it is interesting and unexpected. The word Alba seems to be derived from the colour of the “white cliffs of Dover” and was probably originally a name given by continental peoples to the whole of Britain. The word “Alp” is cognate, though that originally referred to the white colour of the peaks, as seen from the valleys. Also cognate is Latin albus, -a, -um.)

    The language of the Britons in Scotland was quite different from modern Scottish Gaelic, which is a Goidelic form of Celtic (like Irish and the extinct Manx). The Scottish Gaelic language undoubtedly came from Ireland, via SW Scotland, in the later part of the Dark Ages. That is well attested. It is difficult to prove (or disprove) how much movement of people accompanied it, as a language can extend its range by diffusion without much movement of people, but the simplest explanation is that a lot of Irish people migrated to Scotland around that time.

    The Gaelic language spread over a lot of Scotland, though it was never the dominant language on the east coast. The Picts remained there, until they were displaced by, or absorbed into, people of Saxon origin who spoke the Scots language. (And there is a bit of a Norse overlay everywhere, but especially in the far north.) The basic point, though, is that a lot of Scotland came to speak a language that was derived from, and really quite similar to, Irish.

    If you are wondering how I came to know a little about the subject, I lived in Scotland for several years, and read up about its history at the time. And my husband is Scottish (with a celtic first name and a surname that is of Norse origin).

    Incidentally don’t disparage dancing in a skirt until you have tried it. I dance a lot (mostly Greek these days), and definitely prefer a skirt to trousers. You have more freedom of movement. (Would you like to borrow my tutu and find out?)

    Have a good Christmas yourself,


  4. With all that criss-crossing of the blankets I think Linda can claim to be in the category, Mongrel! But even Mongrels can enjoy Christmas too. As the Good God always says, up your kilt etc etc.

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