The average cybernat, on the 3am comment thread he calls home, hammers out the details of the Tunnock’s tea cake boycott.
The mallow-filled Scottish biscuit has rebranded as “British” for the London market. It is the worst thing since the Highland Clearances, Act of Union and 1966 World Cup final all rolled into one and dipped in milk chocolate.
From now on, it’ll be Lees snowballs for him. He’s used to making sacrifices for the cause.
He sleeps in every morning. There’s been no radio to wake him up since the BBC tuned out the truth about independence.
On the way to work, he stops in at the newsagent (not John Menzies) to pick up a paper. No Daily Record for him; they vowed to another country. The Scotsman isn’t Scottish enough and the Economist is a hate crime. That’ll be the National again then. He grimaces at the front page Photoshop of Jackie Baillie machine-gunning Greyfriars Bobby but forces a smile.
He pays for his paper with pennies from a sock. Sure it was more convenient to bank with RBS and the Co-op but he has zero percent interest in financial forelock-tuggers. Lloyds and Standard Life need not even apply.
At lunch, someone offers him a crisp. “Don’t mind if I- Oh. They’re Mackie’s. ‘No thanks’, as they say!”
When he finally gets home, he switches on the TV to find Ross Kemp embedded with gangs. Not his thing at all. Peep Show is on the other side. It used to be his favourite programme but not anymore. Bloody Mitchell. And Webb.
Netflix is not much better. Judi Dench this, Emma Thompson that. And that Mike Myers was never funny anyway. What he needs is a film with a Scottish actor in it. Like Ewan McGregor: A good, patriotic, self-respecting– Damn.
Nowhere can an independent-minded Scot turn to escape the influence of the Union.
His children are still mithering about Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. “Look I’m sorry, Saor and Alba, but we’re not giving our money to JK Quisling. We’ll get some sock puppets and put on our own play: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Colonists and Settlers.”
The new David Bowie tour holds no excitement for him. He doesn’t listen to music much these days anyway. His Pink Floyd and Rolling Stones records all had to go to the charity shop. His higher loyalty must be to the White Paper, not the White Album.
At least he still has Runrig. Bugger.
The dreich weather – brought on by biased BBC maps – is getting him down but he can’t even book a week away. Barrhead Travel wants Scotland to be all inclusive with the UK. Besides, where would he go? Spain and the United States are out, as are Canada and Australia.
To console himself he reaches for a dram of Glenfiddich, then remembers they sold out Scotland. En route to the sink, he ruefully collects his near-full bottle of Bruichladdich, for it too distilled away our hopes and dreams. In fact, he may as well toss the entire drinks cabinet given the Scotch Whisky Association‘s perfidy.
“Wha’s like us,” he muses ruefully, and hopes the party appreciates his sufferances on their behalf. Come to think of it: Nicola Sturgeon goes on the BBC all the time, she probably enjoys a wee nip, and she’s still not said a word about the Tunnock’s treason. It’s almost as if she’s okay with all this.
He wonders: Maybe boycotting travel agents and chocolate-makers is a bit daft. Maybe he should accept that other folk see the world differently. Maybe you can support independence without taking offence at every last thing going. After all, Nicola can do it…
Naw, he resolves, nibbling miserably on a homemade oatcake. There’s only one thing for it: Boycott the SNP.