Then we had the threats. You’re nothing without us. We made you everything you are today. Without our guiding hand you’ll go back to your useless old self. You’ll never manage without us.
Then the lovebombing, let’s call it pleading. We were so good together. We still love you. We achieved great things, don’t throw all that away!
Until, finally. We know you want to be more in control of your life. Just stay. We’ll sit down and agree all the things you can do on your own that you couldn’t do before. Just agree to stay and we won’t have to divvy anything. We’ll make sure you have all the freedom you want. But still together!
I know, I know. It’s not about you; it’s about us. We never understood how much we’d hurt you, how much you’d yearned. We’ll change. Honest. Just say we’ll be together and then we’ll talk. There’s a dear…
And now? That was a vow? I thought a vow was, in marriage terms, a declaration of commitment by both parties, usually with some kind of celebrant and usually to a set of rules. You know the deal: do you Wes Minster take Cally Donia to be your lawfully wedded… ? Now I come to think of it where were the political equivalents of ‘forsaking all others’, ‘to have and to hold’, ‘all my worldly goods’. Oh, well maybe that last bit is what the whole thing is really about.
Then the pleading, loved-up sentiment, threats and downright, made-up horror stories all just faded away. It dawned on me, Gordon Brown’s performance was all a bit like the best man patching up a wedding spat, making promises the groom can’t keep. He was a bit pissed. Didn’t mean to spend the honeymoon money in a casino.
Now they’re all at it, like well-meaning (but useless) friends trying to a sell a reconciliation. He’ll let you keep your half of the CDs in your room. You’ll get to use the car on Fridays. And he’ll look after the money, so just hand over your wages and he’ll make sure you’ve got plenty money for shoes.
But then, when you both sit down to talk about the future, suddenly, the room is full of people. Your other half has brought in a lawyer, several friends plus the minister and the guy from the local supermarket for good measure. None of them are going to agree. Least of all with you. This, you think, is a stitch-up.
Oh, and don’t forget your families. Yours, it turned out, had been mostly in favour of giving it another go. Not by a huge margin, let it be said, because quite a lot of them had been saying all along, enough’s enough. Get the hell out. Now! His family, on the other hand, was always for staying together. Some of them, though, are now suggesting, don’t give away too much. Others are saying, don’t give her anything at all. You never asked us. A few are even saying, get shot of her, get rid of the bitch!
Seems to me that’s where we’re up to with Lord Smith and his commission. It’s the worst reconciliation imaginable. There we were, on a knife-edge. Maybe’s aye, maybe’s naw. We cave in and decide to stick with it. Then this is what we get, a bloody counselor, employed by our other half plus other worthies, not many of our choosing except for a couple of token pals on to make up the numbers, make it look fair.
And the upshot? Instead of promises kept, we’ll get a lawyer’s charter. Lots of new privileges that won’t amount to a hill of beans. You can go dancing any time you like. But you’ll have to pay for your own taxis. You can spend as much on slap but it’ll come out of your pay. You can keep what you earn, by the way, but I’ll be in charge of the family silver including your father’s war medals and I keep anything we dig up in the garden. And I’ll take care of the mortgage, and the bank, and the foreign holidays. Don’t forget the burglar alarm. And the shotgun collection, we’ll keep that in your room but only I can use it. Oh, and if the neighbours ask us round, leave the talking to me. And if you want to ask anyone to ours, check with me first. Don’t want you inviting all the riff-raff in, do we?
Better together? Sod that for a game o sodjers. It’s enough tae gar ye greet. It’s enough to mak ye want yer independence.
Another political fantasy. Well, they started it, with all their marriage imagery and the lovebombing. I’ve just taken it too far. For effect of course. And if there’s a grain of truth in the proceedings… well there ye go…
Also, I cast Scotland as the woman here mainly because the other half’s attitude is chauvinistic. Typical Tory, Red, Yellow or Blue, in my view. It’s how we’ve been treated all along, like a dimwit, necessarily cast as the unequal partner. I hope the rise of the woman’s voice in YES circles shouts against these establishment attitudes especially loud.
Indeed, if the female persona is good enough for Bella Caledonia, it’s good enough for us all. Mother Glasgow. Mother Scotland. It’s got a deep Celtic ring to it. That’s why, as others have mentioned, we don’t do patriotism here. It’s too macho. Cheesy at best, arrogant and aggressive at worst. No. No. No. Let’s celebrate our Matriotism.
Then the lovebombing, let’s call it pleading. We were so good together. We still love you. We achieved great things, don’t throw all that away!
Until, finally. We know you want to be more in control of your life. Just stay. We’ll sit down and agree all the things you can do on your own that you couldn’t do before. Just agree to stay and we won’t have to divvy anything. We’ll make sure you have all the freedom you want. But still together!
I know, I know. It’s not about you; it’s about us. We never understood how much we’d hurt you, how much you’d yearned. We’ll change. Honest. Just say we’ll be together and then we’ll talk. There’s a dear…
And now? That was a vow? I thought a vow was, in marriage terms, a declaration of commitment by both parties, usually with some kind of celebrant and usually to a set of rules. You know the deal: do you Wes Minster take Cally Donia to be your lawfully wedded… ? Now I come to think of it where were the political equivalents of ‘forsaking all others’, ‘to have and to hold’, ‘all my worldly goods’. Oh, well maybe that last bit is what the whole thing is really about.
Then the pleading, loved-up sentiment, threats and downright, made-up horror stories all just faded away. It dawned on me, Gordon Brown’s performance was all a bit like the best man patching up a wedding spat, making promises the groom can’t keep. He was a bit pissed. Didn’t mean to spend the honeymoon money in a casino.
Now they’re all at it, like well-meaning (but useless) friends trying to a sell a reconciliation. He’ll let you keep your half of the CDs in your room. You’ll get to use the car on Fridays. And he’ll look after the money, so just hand over your wages and he’ll make sure you’ve got plenty money for shoes.
But then, when you both sit down to talk about the future, suddenly, the room is full of people. Your other half has brought in a lawyer, several friends plus the minister and the guy from the local supermarket for good measure. None of them are going to agree. Least of all with you. This, you think, is a stitch-up.
Oh, and don’t forget your families. Yours, it turned out, had been mostly in favour of giving it another go. Not by a huge margin, let it be said, because quite a lot of them had been saying all along, enough’s enough. Get the hell out. Now! His family, on the other hand, was always for staying together. Some of them, though, are now suggesting, don’t give away too much. Others are saying, don’t give her anything at all. You never asked us. A few are even saying, get shot of her, get rid of the bitch!
Seems to me that’s where we’re up to with Lord Smith and his commission. It’s the worst reconciliation imaginable. There we were, on a knife-edge. Maybe’s aye, maybe’s naw. We cave in and decide to stick with it. Then this is what we get, a bloody counselor, employed by our other half plus other worthies, not many of our choosing except for a couple of token pals on to make up the numbers, make it look fair.
And the upshot? Instead of promises kept, we’ll get a lawyer’s charter. Lots of new privileges that won’t amount to a hill of beans. You can go dancing any time you like. But you’ll have to pay for your own taxis. You can spend as much on slap but it’ll come out of your pay. You can keep what you earn, by the way, but I’ll be in charge of the family silver including your father’s war medals and I keep anything we dig up in the garden. And I’ll take care of the mortgage, and the bank, and the foreign holidays. Don’t forget the burglar alarm. And the shotgun collection, we’ll keep that in your room but only I can use it. Oh, and if the neighbours ask us round, leave the talking to me. And if you want to ask anyone to ours, check with me first. Don’t want you inviting all the riff-raff in, do we?
Better together? Sod that for a game o sodjers. It’s enough tae gar ye greet. It’s enough to mak ye want yer independence.
Another political fantasy. Well, they started it, with all their marriage imagery and the lovebombing. I’ve just taken it too far. For effect of course. And if there’s a grain of truth in the proceedings… well there ye go…
Also, I cast Scotland as the woman here mainly because the other half’s attitude is chauvinistic. Typical Tory, Red, Yellow or Blue, in my view. It’s how we’ve been treated all along, like a dimwit, necessarily cast as the unequal partner. I hope the rise of the woman’s voice in YES circles shouts against these establishment attitudes especially loud.
Indeed, if the female persona is good enough for Bella Caledonia, it’s good enough for us all. Mother Glasgow. Mother Scotland. It’s got a deep Celtic ring to it. That’s why, as others have mentioned, we don’t do patriotism here. It’s too macho. Cheesy at best, arrogant and aggressive at worst. No. No. No. Let’s celebrate our Matriotism.
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