Ae fond kiss
As Dr J said of Paradise Lost, we must all say of the will they, wont they go, debate, No man wished it longer. It went on so long that even Gordon Brown came back from the dead.But for some there have been special reasons to be glad its over. The Clyde of bilge about Scotland becoming a more socialist country where every unemployed person was going to become either David Hume, Robbie Burns or James Watt began to get to me.
I was getting anxiety attacks. Was this because as an older person I feared change, any change. Did the loss of the Jock regiments, an import tax on malt whiskey and short bread and the repatriation of all those chums who sleep in card board boxes around Waterloo mean so much to me? No it was something , someone else.
I was beginning to fantasise about Nicola “Brave Tits” Sturgeon. The then number two and now leader of the SNP had entered my sub conscious. Not since my infatuation with Stephanie “Snooty” Flanders had I had such restless nights. Young, can I call you Nicky, in her bob haircut, her tight mouth,so principal boy at the panto, and her ready Wheres Wully bright answers was the kinda girl who gets to me.
Bossy, efficient, tidy ,exactly the sort of girl I need to get me back on the straight and narrow. So confident, so assured, so beastly to public school types. Yes. Yes. Nicky, Over here, beat me, show me the error of my soft ,English ways. Come into my bed with your petite breasts, your Brazilian, your tartan tattoo and your shapely hips.
Here I must stop because as dawn broke and the Scottish flag, so proud and blue, once more was trampled by proud Edwards’s power, she, like the dream too far she was,was gone .
But it was not only me. Vivien my life companion, my child bride, the mother of my children had started to dream about Nick Robinson the bald but highly intelligent political editor of the BBC. Others may hanker after the firm hand of John Wayne, the midget looks of Tom Cruise, the muscularity of Sylvester Stalonne but Vivien as she sleeps so serenely beside me has been so disturbed by events in the bothies and the glens that its Nick Robinson with his sure and confident insight, his Clark Kent glasses, who knocks on her sub conscious and demands carnal rights. Vivien says she told him to go home and look after Mrs Robinson and children. In these troubled times I have to believe her.
In the end, as always, the loyal bankers and lawyers of Edinburgh with their friends in the tea rooms of Kelso and Inverness saw off Red Tay and Clydeside. But for me there was the dream of ”Brave Tits” and the fond kiss that never was.