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.