LETTER FROM AMERICA

Howday My Minutemen of the Glens

Well here I am in the US of A on a mission to stir up the nostalgia drunk, misty eyed Scottish diaspora, not to mention build on my newly established status as a world statesman. I'm encouraging our exiled clansmen to come and visit Arbroath Cathedral, site of the ever so relevant Declaration of Arbroath in 1328.

Frankly it's like taking candy off a baby with this lot. I wish I had more of them back home in our enslaved homeland. Talk about living in the past. These American Scots think we still run around in kilts hunting deer and English Redcoats. They don't read books; Hollywood is their history syllabus and as for economics? They couldn'ae spell it.

Crivens, if I had this mob to work with the NO voters would be packing up their goods and chattels already. The great exodus would already have begun. Just think of it, the Irish exported generations of dodgy builders and American policemen. When I win the war in 2014 I'll be exporting generations of lawyers, creative types, thinkers, accountants, business people and academics. Trouble makers the lot of them. Whilst they leave for the metaphorical Premiership I'll be left with the equivalent of the SPL and SFL. The confused, the dependent and the gullible.  Just my kinda folk.

Anyway, on the subject of troublemakers, my Scottish taxpayer funded business class flight to Boston  was somewhat tarnished by an internal memo from my Head of Wasteland Security, Dear Joan McAggro.

Now, you all know the plan for 2014. A big Homecoming event for the aforementioned daft Americans and Canadians who still think they're Scottish. Next, and I joke you not, a re enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn. And finally, to cap it all, the Nobody Cares Games in my heartland of Glasgow. If that doesn't have every decent thinking Scot baying for English blood and ready to tick that YES box on 18th September then I don't know what will. All this, two weeks before that terrible, collaborative and Brit uniting Ryder Cup at Gleneagles. Scots and English playing together for a common European cause. That could have undone all my plans but, thanks to my superior cunning by opting for 18th September, it will not. I outsmarted the preoccupied Sheriff of Bullingdon on that one did I not.

Dear Joan has her uses.  She is rabid and she is loyal and, after all, every great world leader in history has needed an attack dog. They do the dirty work and you pretend not to notice. If they get out of hand you cut them out, hard, quick and in full view of the public.

Hitler had Himmler, Stalin had Beria and Bush had the delightful duo of Cheney and Rumsfeld. And so, here I am, stuck in he middle with Dear Joan.

The latest polls still have 66% of Scots in favour of the Union with only 25% of women in favour of Freedom. Dear Joan's solution: round up 5,000 prospective NO voters and force them to play the part of the English in a REAL re enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn. The poor lassie has even written the script and has proposed televising it live on Scotsport. She's got me down to play Robert the Bruce. Evidently I kick things off by charging Alistair Darling on horseback and splitting his head open from head to sternum with a battleaxe. She then emerges from over the hill with 7,000 wannabe Mel Gibsons and massacres the remaining Unionists. Job done.

It simply won't do. It won't get me votes.

I'll have to deal with Dear Joan one day. Publicly. Finally.

But that can wait.