The newspapers were pushed under the door of my expansive bedroom at Bute House and the rapid retreat of the footsteps told me they bore bad news.
As usual, The Racing Post was first to be scanned. Quean Fifi had unseated her rider at the first hurdle at Musselburgh the day before and had cost me the usual £ 50 but that was only to be expected. She's been carrying too much weight for months now and can't last the distance. However, this was as nothing compared to the front pages of the broadsheets.
I picked out the first article and read on:
"The golfing world breathed a sigh of relief as the Honourable Member of the men only Burns Howff Club in Dumfries announced that he wasn't going to attend the Open Championship at Muirfield.
In a bid to “woo women voters”,
Mr Bravebelly is boycotting the Muirfield event after describing the men-only club as
“indefensible in the 21st century."
Aw, naw. How on earth did they find out about Dumfries. Even I'd forgotten about that. It makes me look like a complete opportunist, and a hypocrite to boot.
It got worse:
"Croatia admitted to European Union but only on condition it adopts the Euro, thus scuppering Mr Bravebelly's hopes of selling EU membership to Scottish public as a Plan B currency option. Critics also point out that his latest Isle of Man currency model has already been rejected by his own Fiscal Commission."
All this puts me in right guddle. Either I give up Scotland's control of the £ or I opt for a currency of our own, the Skinto. The voters will never agree to giving up control of the £ and Big John Swindly tells me the value of the Skinto would fall faster than Quean Fifi in the Grand National so that's a non starter.
Time for some diversionary English bashing methinks.
How about using a huge dollop of Creative Scotland's money to commission an STV series about my predecessors William Wallace and Robert the Bruce? Yes. Broadcast it in 2014. Even better.
Cynical, jingoistic, backward looking, parochial and divisive.
That's all the boxes ticked!
Monday, 22 July 2013
VIP
One thing I've noticed that we Heads of State all have in common is a large entourage. Personal assistants, special advisers and numerous burly security guards all help to show you, the commoners, that I am a very, very important person.
Now with this in mind, and the internet awash with completely unjustified criticism of my spontaneous outburst of patriotism at Wimbledon, I called the head of Scotland's polis on my special hotline to ask for more security as I hit the campaign trail. He was in a meeting with his top brass so knew that my call would be put through immediately.
Me: "Good Morning Superintendent. It's your glorious leader here."
Head of Polis (hand over phone receiver): "Excuse me lads, I've got Bravebelly on the Fatphone."
Me:" Now listen here. I'm none to happy with all this abuse I'm getting for Wimbledon, and even unhappier that the All England Club have sent me a letter banning me from the place. It's obvious that I need more security."
Head of Polis: "Mr Bravebelly, sir, I think the biggest threat to your security is probably yourself. I thought I explained the rules about how you are supposed to behave in the Royal Box."
Me: " Well that's all water under the bridge now. Send me more coppers. And I want the ones with the dark glasses and the wires coming out of their ears. They make me look really important."
Head of Polis: " Sire, I can only restate my position. There is not a sufficient threat to justify the huge cost that such personal security would entail. My budget has been decimated over the last few years and I barely have the manpower to police the country's populus never mind you."
Me: "Havers man. I am the populus. I am the most important Scot for generations and if anything happens to me then our dream of an independent Nirvana will turn to dust."
Head of Polis: "That will be your dream Sir. I think you'll find the large majority of Scots don't want independence."
Me: "Then that's all the more the reason to send me more coppers. What if I get "Nigel Faraged" when I'm walking about Edinburgh among the great unwashed ?"
Head of Polis: "Sorry Sir. I don't see the risk and I don't have the money."
Me: "Right. I'll find the money from the Scottish Office and get Big John Swindly to hide the paper trail. Just send me the coppers."
Head of Polis: "As you command sire."
Now, with the annual bill for my 14 Special Advisers costing the Scottish public £ 930,000 how do I ensure that the press never find out about this latest exercise in hubris????
Now with this in mind, and the internet awash with completely unjustified criticism of my spontaneous outburst of patriotism at Wimbledon, I called the head of Scotland's polis on my special hotline to ask for more security as I hit the campaign trail. He was in a meeting with his top brass so knew that my call would be put through immediately.
Me: "Good Morning Superintendent. It's your glorious leader here."
Head of Polis (hand over phone receiver): "Excuse me lads, I've got Bravebelly on the Fatphone."
Me:" Now listen here. I'm none to happy with all this abuse I'm getting for Wimbledon, and even unhappier that the All England Club have sent me a letter banning me from the place. It's obvious that I need more security."
Head of Polis: "Mr Bravebelly, sir, I think the biggest threat to your security is probably yourself. I thought I explained the rules about how you are supposed to behave in the Royal Box."
Me: " Well that's all water under the bridge now. Send me more coppers. And I want the ones with the dark glasses and the wires coming out of their ears. They make me look really important."
Head of Polis: " Sire, I can only restate my position. There is not a sufficient threat to justify the huge cost that such personal security would entail. My budget has been decimated over the last few years and I barely have the manpower to police the country's populus never mind you."
Me: "Havers man. I am the populus. I am the most important Scot for generations and if anything happens to me then our dream of an independent Nirvana will turn to dust."
Head of Polis: "That will be your dream Sir. I think you'll find the large majority of Scots don't want independence."
Me: "Then that's all the more the reason to send me more coppers. What if I get "Nigel Faraged" when I'm walking about Edinburgh among the great unwashed ?"
Head of Polis: "Sorry Sir. I don't see the risk and I don't have the money."
Me: "Right. I'll find the money from the Scottish Office and get Big John Swindly to hide the paper trail. Just send me the coppers."
Head of Polis: "As you command sire."
Now, with the annual bill for my 14 Special Advisers costing the Scottish public £ 930,000 how do I ensure that the press never find out about this latest exercise in hubris????
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
CASHING IN
Morning Minions
Now. How to follow up on my Saltire waving expolits?
Aside from ordering Dear Joan McAggro and my berserker Cybernats to hunt down and exile the anti patriot that tweeted "That wasn't a flag, that was his underpants" I thought the whole thing went down really well. Reminded me of my days on the terracing at Tynecastle (not that I went to that God forsaken place that often you understand).
Anyway, never mind Murray's achievements. After all, I've ensured that he can't vote in the referendum. My real genius was humiliating the Evil Bullingdon and hooking up my Yes Campaign to the Murray bandwagon.
So what next? What other rabbits can I pull out of Moira's voluminous handbag?
The Evil Bullingdon will no doubt give him a knighthood so how do I deliver another crushing blow to The Great Satan?
How about a star studded dinner in Stirling Castle with me as the host?
The King of Scotland hosts it's sporting prince. Yes, I like it.
We'll get Greggs to do the catering and I'll get Andy to sit next to me and the Princess of Welfare, Nicola the Naive. Daft Jim McBlowhard can sponsor it (tax deductable you understand) and I'll get Big John Swindly to open the biscuit tin and build a few all weather tennis courts in the local area.
Just think of the photo opportunities.
Sunday, 7 July 2013
VICTORY!!
Oh what a day! What a victory for Scotland!
A packed Centre Court at Wimbledon. The sun splitting a clear blue sky and two great warriors facing each other under the gaze of a spellbound worldwide TV audience.
Me and The Evil Sheriff of Bullingdon face to face at last. And the result?
Game set and match to Bravebelly!!
As match point in the tennis approached I sneaked the folded Scottish Saltire from my ample girth and waved it proudly behind Bullingdon's head.
Take that you despot! Take that Tory Unionist Junta!
Underestimate the great Bravebelly at your peril! Ha!
The skinny guy with the gold trophy ignored me - as did everyone else come to think of it.
Still, in the tradition of Wallace, Bruce and, yes fellow freedom fighters, even Nelson Mandela, I have struck a blow for freedom deep in the belly of the beast.
All proper Scots should be suitably proud of their great leader tonight!!
A packed Centre Court at Wimbledon. The sun splitting a clear blue sky and two great warriors facing each other under the gaze of a spellbound worldwide TV audience.
Me and The Evil Sheriff of Bullingdon face to face at last. And the result?
Game set and match to Bravebelly!!
As match point in the tennis approached I sneaked the folded Scottish Saltire from my ample girth and waved it proudly behind Bullingdon's head.
Take that you despot! Take that Tory Unionist Junta!
Underestimate the great Bravebelly at your peril! Ha!
The skinny guy with the gold trophy ignored me - as did everyone else come to think of it.
Still, in the tradition of Wallace, Bruce and, yes fellow freedom fighters, even Nelson Mandela, I have struck a blow for freedom deep in the belly of the beast.
All proper Scots should be suitably proud of their great leader tonight!!
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