Ah, well now, listen here, ye band o’ braw but bewildered independence warriors—I’ve held the flame for oor nation’s freedom high as the Ben itself, but by the ghost o’ Bannockburn, I scarce recognise the Indy cause these days. It’s a parade o’ well-meanin’ eejits, and mark ye, and I dinnae fling that word as a barb, but as the plain truth o’ it—stumblin’ forward wi’ hearts o’ gold but heids full o’ heather.
Take this bletherin’ graphic ye’re wavin’ aboot;
On a dozen levels it’s wrang as a kilt on a kiltie in the Sahara.
But och, if ye’re a Unionist at heart, it’s a gift wrapped in tartan—gie’s a fine, flutterin’ Jack for ye to huddle ’round, wi’ the smug certainty that ye’ll be keepin’ the blue-faced separatists frae gainin’ an inch o’ ground. Do ye truly reckon those hardy souls, who’ve fain swallowed centuries o’ humiliation and hardship frae their English overlords like a dram o’ peaty whisky on a haarie morn, are gaun to lose a wink o’ sleep over Reform’s honeyed vows, one way or t’other?
Nae chance, lads!
Nae a fiddler’s damn!
What ye’re daein’, plain and simple, is herdin’ every soul wi’ a grudge against the SNP or a gnawin’ doubt aboot the wisdom o’ such a seismic shift, intae a cosy wee bothy o’ opposition. If ye’re half-serious aboot haulin’ Scotland free—and God kens I poured me lifeblood intae that grail—it’s yer ain mindsets that cry oot for a richt guid overhaul.
Without ropin’ in those whose ‘political’ hues ye might spit at across the Holyrood chamber (aye, politics, that grand muckle beast), ye’ll ne’er cross the Rubicon o’ independence.
Mind, it’s nae more than a constitutional caper at root—nae manifesto for the ages, just the birthright o’ a sovereign kintra.
Like it or lump it, an Independent Scotland will teem wi’ Tories and Socialists, right-wing rogues and left-leanin’ dreamers, the hale clanjamfrie o’ the middle-ground and—let’s be honest—a fair sprinklin’ o’ utter numpties tae boot. The notion ye can snatch freedom without convincin’ a horde o’ those ‘other’ voices that Indy carves oot a braw new forum whaur they can thump their tubs and shape their fates through the ballot’s honest dance? That’s nae just naïve, my friends—it’s daft as a brush dipped in haggis.
Slappin’ doon folk’s politics like a wet haddock at a ceilidh? That’s nae the road to rallyin’ a pro-Indy faithful. Nay, it’s the path to perdition, whaur the Union Jack waves eternal.
So straighten yer spines, broaden yer gaze, and remember: freedom’s forge is fueled by the fire o’ all Scots, no just the choir ye’d fain preach tae. Slàinte mhòr tae the cause—may it rise wiser, and win.