How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [31]
I wouldn’t mind but they were cheering for a man who has, in the past, made it plain that he is not English at all, or British. But Scottish. And that, for me, is becoming a problem. When we kindly gave the Scots their Stone of Destiny back, I thought that that would be that and Sean Connery would go back to playing golf. But no. Every day there’s another rabid attack on the English from up there in the heather, another demand that we simply sever all ties and let them forge their own path in the world.
This I don’t understand. I can see why the English might want independence from them. Scotland is a drain on our economy to the tune of about £10 billion a year. But them wanting to leave us? Isn’t that a bit like the oxpecker spitting in the rhino’s eye? They’d have to have their own embassies around the world. They’d have to get their own currency. And think of how much it would cost to set up a whole new state, especially in a country that managed to spend £414m on a parliament building. That works out at £1m for every man, woman and child still living there.
Scotland would even have to get its own army. Oh no, wait a minute. I’ve just remembered. They have one already. It’s called the SAS.
There’s more, too. Only last week there were calls from north of the border for a separate Scottish entry for next year’s Eurovision song contest. What? The Proclaimers? Or just a random collection of men in dresses blowing into their tartan bags? Either way, I can’t see them getting too many votes from Estonia.
It’s funny. I’ve never had a problem with Scotland or its people. I recognize the massive contribution it’s made to the world of inventions. I like haggis. Local Hero is my all-time favourite film. And in a rugby match, I’ve always supported the boys in blue so long as they weren’t actually up against us. Certainly, if I felt the need to poke a bit of fun at someone, the Welsh made much better targets. Now, though, things seem to be changing because, when I stop and think about it, I’ve never met a Welshman whom I’ve disliked. Apart from Piers Pughe-Morgan, obviously – and he claims to be Irish. Whereas, these days, every Scotchman rides into the room on a wave of bile and nationalism.
They have become the new Australians; unable to get through any conversation without bringing up a litany of English failures and embarrassments. Ask a barman up there for a glass of Scotch, and what you get instead is an essay on Culloden and Stirling and Bannockburn, and Murrayfield back in March.
All of this is fine when it’s good-natured, but I have a sense these days that the veneer of friendly rivalry is being replaced with a mask of smiling anger. Sometimes I get the distinct impression that, if I mention Falkirk, the McChap will lean over the bar and pull my arms off.
I feel about this the same way that a mother might feel when her daughter, whom she’s loved and nurtured and helped – with £10 billion a year – suddenly turns round and says: ‘I hate you. And I’m going to get a flat on my own.’ You know the poor child is going to have her heart broken and get into trouble and catch chlamydia.
So this column – it’s a plea. Can you stop it? You lost. You’re part of Britain. You’ve had 300 years to get used to that, and it’s starting to look as though you’re being stubborn.
The fact is that the union has been a good thing. We are grateful to you for inventing penicillin and the telephone, and you should be grateful to us for introducing you to proper food and trousers.
If you want to go, that’s fine – but can’t we at least part as friends? Because if we can’t, next time there’s a tennis match between Murray and Gasquet, I shall simply support the person who lives nearest to me. And that’d be the Frenchie.
Sunday 6 July 2008
Now we’re for it: we’ve stopped behaving badly
There have been many very different reactions to Max Mosley’s basement