Hate is a strong word


Disclaimer: These arent responses to me, I aint on twitter, if you were wondering.

Here’s a wee bit of context for you all. Someone cracked a joke about England (Surprise, surprise) something to do with the fitbaw. Anyway, this bumrat obviously took it with all the grace of a man receiving a slap across the gub.

So, hello *****, did you know that you are a cunt. Did you also know that someone now genuinely hates you; another human being literally does not care if you get hit by a bus tomorrow. Now, hates a strong word, they say, and it’s apt for the raging inferno of roiling contempt I now feel for you. I would literally push a button labelled, ‘Push to set ***** house on fire’

First of all, everyone loves Scotland, and those who don’t, well they don’t count. Secondly, no one likes England, *****, no body, zero people. Not even God. Aye, that’s right, even God hates you and the flat, concrete, tenement sprawl that is your grey and polluted land. Also, ginger hair is, like Scotland, both beautiful, and magical.

So *****, remind me again which song it is the world sings at New Year? And tell me *****, how many Americans and Canadians do you see dressed up like Crusaders at their weddings? Or how many New Zealanders celebrate Shakespeare’s birth each year with feasts? Not many I’d imagine, what with having their calendars booked full with Burns suppers, and Tartan day, and Highland games and whatnot. No, but seriously *****, you and I would get on like a house on fire, (Started by me setting you on fire whilst you slept) I reckon.

Oh wait! I forgot about Spain, my bad. Yup, Spain is the only country I can think of that has more English pubs than England itself! But that isn’t really because of some appreciation of English “culture”, is it *****. No, you and I both know it’s only for those sweet, sweet pounds sterling. A few bucks of that sweet English money that they can pry from the meaty paw of some shaven-headed, beer-bellied little Englander.

Anyway, back to God hating you and your country, which reminds me of a good joke.

When God had finished creating Scotland, He looked down on it with great satisfaction. Finally he called the Archangel Gabriel to have a look. “Just see,” said God. “This is the best yet. Splendid mountains, beautiful scenery, brave men, fine women, nice cool weather. And I’ve given them beautiful music and a special drink called whisky. Try some.”

Gabriel took an appreciative sip. “Excellent,” he said. “But haven’t you perhaps been too kind to them? Won’t they be spoiled by all these things? Should there not be some drawback?”

“Just wait till you see the neighbors they’re getting,” said God.

Ha ha ha ha ha, how we laugh, up here on our misty mountains, gazing down lovingly upon the rolling heather, whilst we sup on our drams o the finest malt, and the piper plays a stirring rendition of Scotland the brave to sweep us away in a gentle breeze that is the ancient culture and heritage of Scotland. Oh, and there is also a red deer stag rising proudly, aloft on a granite outcrop bursting from the mountainside, amid a sea of purple and fawn heath, to gaze out across God’s finest creation, a single tear running down its magnificent and noble visage, as it to, realizes how lucky it is to be Scottish.