You never really hear much from unionists, do you? I don’t mean the Irish ones, with their leery hate and wannabe milf wives and surnames which you always assume are going to be Paisley.
You never really hear much from unionists, do you? I don’t mean the Irish ones, with their leery hate and wannabe milf wives and surnames which you always assume are going to be Paisley. I mean the original ones. Act of Union unionists. The Scottish ones. Haven’t they let things slip, a bit?
I’m a unionist, I think. Only, let’s be honest, a fat lot of good I’m going to do. You want meandering musings, perhaps with a dubious quip about milfs up top, I’m up for it. Only, right now, I think we unionists need more than that. We need serious, sober people, prepared to mount a serious, sober defence of the status quo. They must exist. Are they locked away? Somebody has to find them, and wheel them out.
Because the anti-union case, right now, is so much easier to make. Post-election, look at that map. When I was at primary school, up in Edinburgh, I spent a lot of time colouring in maps of the UK. Not sure why. It was either that or long division, I suppose. We had a box of stencils of Britain in our classroom, with a cut-out indent for drawing in the Scottish border, which was where they always snapped in two. Oh, the symbolism! Anyway, you’d trace the coastline, and you’d draw in the border, and then you’d colour Scotland in the Scottish colour, which was blue, and England in the English colour, which would have been white if the lines on your page didn’t make that look rubbish, so instead was red.
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