Dear David,
I write in response to your letter of 26 September
in which you say that you are unwilling to debate the future of Scotland
with me, the future King of Scotland.
The government which you lead is central to the entire
referendum debate from the perspective of the No campaign - even although none of you English oppressors get to vote. The reality
is that your government continues to make decisions affecting Scotland because that is what the electorate voted for…
this annoys me because I believe I am the reincarnation of William Wallace.
No. I'm serious.
The fundamental argument at the heart
of the case for independence is that I get to have total power and get a huge entourage and get treated like a small African potentate.
Stuff the economics, I know they don't work but I really don't care.
It's all about me.
There is worrying
evidence that under the current constitutional arrangements your
government intends to cut spending in Scotland. However, that wouldn't be anything like the £ 6bn which the Institute of Fiscal Studies tells us that an independent Scotland would have to cut from the current public spending budget between 2016 - 18 just to meet EU Maastricht Treaty borrowing requirements.
Senior Tory figures,
including Ruth Davidson, have called for the current Barnett Formula to
be abolished. I believe that a debate on such a crucial issue should
take place so I can launch my own Project Fear by insinuating that you might plan to cut public
spending in Scotland in the event there is a No vote. I will obviously be saying nothing about the comparatively impoverishing cuts which I, the newly elected King of New Caledonianalbania, would have to impose on my unsuspecting minions in order to turn the 2.3% deficit into the EU required 3.1% surplus.
You
suggested in Scotland last year that you had an alternative
constitutional position to independence. That is one alternative more than me, so fair play to you on that one. People have the right to know
what it is before the referendum takes place. They certainly won't be hearing that from me of course.
Finally, you
suggest I should debate with the chairman of the No campaign Alistair
Darling. I’m sure that other debates will take place in due course but
for the reasons I have made clear the key debate has to be between the
head of the Scottish Government – the First Minister of Scotland (that makes me like Obama and Putin by the way son) - and the head of the elected Westminster government – the UK Prime Minister.
The case for a head-to-head debate between us is unanswerable. You should reconsider.
Or else............ I'm gubbed.
http://www.scotsman.com/news/politics/top-stories/scottish-independence-salmond-s-new-debate-demand-1-3117428
Monday, 30 September 2013
Sunday, 29 September 2013
REICHSPARTEITAG
The big day had arrived. The great Och Aye Campaign rally on Calton Hill.
The motorcade pulled up in front of Bute House and my six new security guards stepped out to usher their great leader into his gleaming limousine.
Now this is the way to travel. This is what being First Minister is all about.
The underlings piled into the cars behind whilst a pensive Princess Nicola and Big John Swindly joined me in the back of my spanking new limo.
"Sire, how many do you think will be there?" asked Nicola the Naive.
"Enough to fill the seven hills of Edinburgh." I replied "They'll have come from all across our brave Caledonia to hear my message; my Sermon for Scotland as it were. It will be a like the great gathering of the clans in 1745."
Sure enough, as the motorcade made it's way to Calton Hill, we began to encounter crowds of young men walking east from Edinburgh city centre.
"See!" I exclaimed "Just look at that impressive legion of Scottish patriots making their way down London Road. They're obviously heading for Calton Hill to hear me speak."
A somewhat less chirpy John Swindly piped up: "Sorry Sire, but thery're all wearing green scarves. I think you'll find that's the Hibernian support on the way to the St Mirren game. There are more people heading towards Easter Road than to Calton Hill."
Hibees. Not good. Last time I ran into one of them he called me a frog faced Jambo baistard.
"Carry on driver. Don't you worry John." I countered. "There will be tens and tens of thousands waiting for me. Scotland's natural majority gathered to hear their leader speak of our impending freedom from English Thrall. Just you wait and see."
As the motorcade climbed Calton Hill my brave heart started to sink. We passed the usual smattering of left wing Berserker Nats, half drunk students and even a group of Far Right Belgian separatists; but for God's sake, this looked more like a bloody Run Rig tribute concert than a national rally. There can have been no more that 4,000 people waiting to hear Scotland's Liberator speak. What on earth is going on? Where is everybody?
The car stopped and I plastered on a smile as I struggled to ease my girth through the car door.
A line of apparent dignitaries awaited me. I barely recognised any of them. Oh Christ, I thought, this looks like a bloody dole queue.
A small, rotund and very nervous lady rushed towards the motor.
"Oh mighty Bravebelly, it's yersel'. Welcome to our wee pairty. I'm the actress and comedienne Hellain C Mentalcase, I'm compering the show 'an that. Do want a wee swally before you go on stage? Ah've got some Buckie in ma haunbag and aifter yer antics at Wimbledon I ken hoo you like a wee stash in a haunbag, eh Big Yin?!?"
"Onyway. C'moan an' meet the celebs." she urged, pushing me towards the small line of glaikit faces.
Celebs! Who in the name of Boaby Bruce were these people. A washed up folk singer, some comedian I'd never heard of; Blithering Blair, the incompetent successfully running the Och Aye Campaign into the ground and, to cap it all, Dennis Canavan, the man who put the boot into me over my decision to try and peg Free Scotland's currency to sterling. Great, just bloody great.
Every sinew in my body wanted to get back into my limo and be driven as far away from these loons as possible. However, I am the single most important person in Scotland and had a duty to speak to my minions, no matter how small the turn out.
The next 20 minutes were purgatory.
"Let's make sure they can hear us in London" I cried as I took the stage "How are we going to vote next year?"
A collective Yes resounded back to me, albeit with all the force of a puff of smoke.
"Bairns not Bombs" I bellowed. A collective look of bewilderment came straight back to me.
"The Evil Sheriff Bullingdon is feart to debate me." I declared. "Oh, yes he is" came back the pantomime response.
"Saor Alba!"............ blank faces stared out at me.
Finally, finally, it was over.
Nicola the Naive was inconsolable. Big John looked ready to throw himself off Arthur's Seat.
Nothing was said as the limo made it's slow, winding way down Calton Hill.
Finally, I'd had enough.
"Right. That's it. If we cannae win by fair means then let's win by foul." I blurted.
"What do mean Sire?" asked Nicola, choking back the tears.
"Lies. We'll just have to tell lies. Wee white ones to start but bloody big whoppers if we need to."
"Like what?" said Big John
"Well let's start with pensions" I said "Get a press release out tomorrow saying that we will guarantee to pay a bigger pension that the UK average".
"What!" exclaimed Swindly "We can't afford to do that. You know as well as I do that the Institute of Fiscal Studies have told us that there will have to be around £6bn of pubic sector cuts and tax increases across the board if, by some miracle, we win next September. Under the rules of the Maastricht Treaty we'd have to turn a 2.3% annual deficit into a 3.1% annual surplus just to be able to borrow enough to service our share of the national debt."
"Also, we can't guarantee anything because nothing has been agreed with the UK govt. No currency, no share of the national debt, no pension agreements, nothing. And the oil is running out. You can't possibly make that guarantee."
"I don't care." I said emphatically" Send it out. And Nicola. dry your eyes and get yersel' along to an old folks home for the photocall tomorrow. Preferably one where they're all suffering from advanced dementia so you won't get rumbled by the residents."
That'll teach this nation of halfwits to ignore me when I call them to a rally.
The motorcade pulled up in front of Bute House and my six new security guards stepped out to usher their great leader into his gleaming limousine.
Now this is the way to travel. This is what being First Minister is all about.
The underlings piled into the cars behind whilst a pensive Princess Nicola and Big John Swindly joined me in the back of my spanking new limo.
"Sire, how many do you think will be there?" asked Nicola the Naive.
"Enough to fill the seven hills of Edinburgh." I replied "They'll have come from all across our brave Caledonia to hear my message; my Sermon for Scotland as it were. It will be a like the great gathering of the clans in 1745."
Sure enough, as the motorcade made it's way to Calton Hill, we began to encounter crowds of young men walking east from Edinburgh city centre.
"See!" I exclaimed "Just look at that impressive legion of Scottish patriots making their way down London Road. They're obviously heading for Calton Hill to hear me speak."
A somewhat less chirpy John Swindly piped up: "Sorry Sire, but thery're all wearing green scarves. I think you'll find that's the Hibernian support on the way to the St Mirren game. There are more people heading towards Easter Road than to Calton Hill."
Hibees. Not good. Last time I ran into one of them he called me a frog faced Jambo baistard.
"Carry on driver. Don't you worry John." I countered. "There will be tens and tens of thousands waiting for me. Scotland's natural majority gathered to hear their leader speak of our impending freedom from English Thrall. Just you wait and see."
As the motorcade climbed Calton Hill my brave heart started to sink. We passed the usual smattering of left wing Berserker Nats, half drunk students and even a group of Far Right Belgian separatists; but for God's sake, this looked more like a bloody Run Rig tribute concert than a national rally. There can have been no more that 4,000 people waiting to hear Scotland's Liberator speak. What on earth is going on? Where is everybody?
The car stopped and I plastered on a smile as I struggled to ease my girth through the car door.
A line of apparent dignitaries awaited me. I barely recognised any of them. Oh Christ, I thought, this looks like a bloody dole queue.
A small, rotund and very nervous lady rushed towards the motor.
"Oh mighty Bravebelly, it's yersel'. Welcome to our wee pairty. I'm the actress and comedienne Hellain C Mentalcase, I'm compering the show 'an that. Do want a wee swally before you go on stage? Ah've got some Buckie in ma haunbag and aifter yer antics at Wimbledon I ken hoo you like a wee stash in a haunbag, eh Big Yin?!?"
"Onyway. C'moan an' meet the celebs." she urged, pushing me towards the small line of glaikit faces.
Celebs! Who in the name of Boaby Bruce were these people. A washed up folk singer, some comedian I'd never heard of; Blithering Blair, the incompetent successfully running the Och Aye Campaign into the ground and, to cap it all, Dennis Canavan, the man who put the boot into me over my decision to try and peg Free Scotland's currency to sterling. Great, just bloody great.
Every sinew in my body wanted to get back into my limo and be driven as far away from these loons as possible. However, I am the single most important person in Scotland and had a duty to speak to my minions, no matter how small the turn out.
The next 20 minutes were purgatory.
"Let's make sure they can hear us in London" I cried as I took the stage "How are we going to vote next year?"
A collective Yes resounded back to me, albeit with all the force of a puff of smoke.
"Bairns not Bombs" I bellowed. A collective look of bewilderment came straight back to me.
"The Evil Sheriff Bullingdon is feart to debate me." I declared. "Oh, yes he is" came back the pantomime response.
"Saor Alba!"............ blank faces stared out at me.
Finally, finally, it was over.
Nicola the Naive was inconsolable. Big John looked ready to throw himself off Arthur's Seat.
Nothing was said as the limo made it's slow, winding way down Calton Hill.
Finally, I'd had enough.
"Right. That's it. If we cannae win by fair means then let's win by foul." I blurted.
"What do mean Sire?" asked Nicola, choking back the tears.
"Lies. We'll just have to tell lies. Wee white ones to start but bloody big whoppers if we need to."
"Like what?" said Big John
"Well let's start with pensions" I said "Get a press release out tomorrow saying that we will guarantee to pay a bigger pension that the UK average".
"What!" exclaimed Swindly "We can't afford to do that. You know as well as I do that the Institute of Fiscal Studies have told us that there will have to be around £6bn of pubic sector cuts and tax increases across the board if, by some miracle, we win next September. Under the rules of the Maastricht Treaty we'd have to turn a 2.3% annual deficit into a 3.1% annual surplus just to be able to borrow enough to service our share of the national debt."
"Also, we can't guarantee anything because nothing has been agreed with the UK govt. No currency, no share of the national debt, no pension agreements, nothing. And the oil is running out. You can't possibly make that guarantee."
"I don't care." I said emphatically" Send it out. And Nicola. dry your eyes and get yersel' along to an old folks home for the photocall tomorrow. Preferably one where they're all suffering from advanced dementia so you won't get rumbled by the residents."
That'll teach this nation of halfwits to ignore me when I call them to a rally.
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