A boundless ego, and the tears of a child: one man’s quest to be the most unlikable c**t

Alternate timeline

Lewis Hamilton poses in kilt in photo shoot to ‘make amends’ after mocking nephew for wearing a ‘princess dress’

Me: Didn’t quite catch that last part; can you repeat it…

Lewis Hamilton poses in kilt in photo shoot to ‘make amends’ after mocking nephew for wearing a ‘princess dress’

An incredulous Me: So you are equating the Kilt to a princess’s dress. Ah; right, I see.

And so, according to Lewis Hamilton, he wore the kilt to ‘make amends’ for berating a small child he had caught wearing a pink dress. In an interview with GQ Magazine, he spoke of his deep, deep shame and regret after posting the video wherein he yelled at the child the emotionally devastating line: ‘boys don’t wear princess dresses’.

The monster!

Small children, and culture! Is anything safe around this beast

And here’s how this whole fiasco went down, via British GQ:

“As well as wanting Hamilton to address the issue, we wanted him to appear on our cover either wearing something prominently pink or in something approximating a skirt or a dress. At the start of the year, when we found out that Hamilton was about to be appointed as an ambassador for Tommy Hilfiger, designing his own line for the brand, we suggested the idea to Hilfiger himself. Unsurprisingly, Hilfiger jumped at the idea, although Hamilton’s people were initially circumspect, worried that this would stir up the story again. As it was, when we suggested the idea to Hamilton himself, he loved it and set about designing his own kilt. He was aware he’d made a public mistake and he wanted to make a very public acknowledgement of this, obviously empowering his nephew in the process”

So, is wearing a Kilt really that much of a taboo? Is it something to snigger at and deride behind coquettishly covered lips? Is it so progressive and outlandish and bold for an Englishman to wear one, that it becomes such a huge statement towards inclusiveness and progressive ideology? Is that not in and of itself born of ignorance and prejudice; that for it to be believed to have impact, and weight, then the act itself must be considered taboo; otherwise, its just a prick in a Kilt.

Pictured: A prick in a Kilt

But hold on a minute, I seem to recall once punching a curry out of my pals hands; does that mean, by means of making amends for such shameful action, that I should then wear a saree? You know what, that makes perfect fucking sense. Its so clear now, that the right thing to do would be to equate the drunkenly assaulted curry with the wearing of a saree, right? I mean, both are enjoyed by the Indian people…

No, no; wait, that would be culturally insensitive, also, I’m a guy. A turban! Of course, a turban then! After all, people who wear turbans are apt to enjoy the diarrhea inducing gift that is curry, are they not?

What do you mean I’m being absurd; obtuse perhaps, but absurd? How is that any more absurd than Lewis Hamilton wearing a Kilt as a way to apologize to a fucking child who wore a pink dress?

No, Ill tell you whats fucking absurd, that that painfully uncool, try-hard little ponce Hamilton is equating the Kilt to a skirt, something inherently feminine, and all in one cringe-inducing photo shoot, complete with a whole heaping lack of self-awareness and irony; and in doing so, go on to ridicule an entire culture with his pseudo progressive apology. The imbecility of this little cool-kid wannabe is matched only by the hell of an ego he sports.

Also; did EDM really kill Avicii? That is the sort of serious questions that need to be answered here folks.

Cinead MacAlpin.


Snarky Starkey

This is in response to remarks made by David Starkey, when asked whether St George’s Day should be an English national holiday. Also, I haven’t been about for a while so what better to jump back in with than with a good auld rant.

Side note: I’ll be posting a nice wee story about a deaf and mute fairy tomorrow, so, if you don’t like my rants, there’s that. Anyway, without further ado-

‘If we decide to go down this route of an English national day, it will mean we have become a feeble little country, just like the Scots and the Welsh and the Irish,’ he responded.

Me: This sort of knee-jerk vitriol is the type of school-boy bullshit deflection we’ve all encountered on the playground; one kid calls out another for wearing shitey trainers, then the kid with the shitey trainers hisses about not caring about having good trainers cause he doesn’t care about trends, or girls, or looking good. Basically, the deflector tries to act like hes above such petty and material concerns. England it that kid with shit shoes. It has no shape, no definable form or singular quality of person by which to set itself apart from the shades of grey by which life has cast its palate. So, what does a grey blob do when surrounded by color? Condemn the vibrancy of the former, for that is all it has to attack.

‘We do not make a great fact about Shakespeare, like the Scots do about that deeply boring, provincial poet Burns, and we do not have national music like the awful bagpipe.’

Me: Oh realllllllyyyyyyyyyy? What about the Judi Dench led gala in the link below.


Prince Charles. Shakespeare celebrations. A prince on a stage. A prince celebrating Shakespeare. Have I made my point yet?


Oh, and here’s the jam-packed itinerary for the, totally not a great fact about Shakespeare, celebrations in the above link.


From 10am: Free entry to our permanent exhibition, The Play’s The Thing
10.35 – 11.30am (approx): Shakespeare Birthday Parade, Bridge Street
11.15am – 12.20pm (approx): Literary Pageant performance by Positive Youth Foundation, Bridge Street
11.30am – 4pm: Craft Workshop, Upper Foyer, The Other Place
12 – 4pm: Sonnet Ferry, Chain Ferry Crossing, River Avon. Listen to Shakespeare’s poetry as you cross the River Avon, read to you by RSC actors. 50p per crossing
12 – 3pm: Meet the Artist: Jasmine Thompson, creator of Love as a Revolution, Bancroft Terrace
12 – 12.45pm: Blood Guts and Gore, The Other Place
1 – 1.45pm: Theatre Design Q&A, The Other Place
1.30pm: Positive Youth Foundation performance, Bancroft Terrace (10 minutes)
2 – 2.45pm: Stage Fighting Demo, The Other Place
2.30pm: Positive Youth Foundation performance, Bancroft Terrace (10 minutes)
3 – 3.45pm: Rehearsing Shakespeare, The Other Place
5 – 6pm: Apples and Snakes present: SPIN

Side note: Have I made my point yet?

Also, seeing as you went and brought him up; auld Rabbie boy actually wrote and composed his entire catalog of original works…whereas…


‘The Scots and the Welsh are typical small nations with a romantic 19th century-style nationalism.’

Me: As opposed to what sort of reverie then, and by which era should we embolden its sensibilities within our collective national memory; what age is better to dwell upon than one wherein the very era of romance was captured in the zeitgeist of a nation? The bronze age, the iron age? The 10th century, or the 13th, maybe the 5th, or why not the 17th century, eh? Sorry, I’m deliberately being obtuse here, but in all honesty, that period in Scottish history is the most recent, as well as one of the better documented era’s by which modern minds can better imagine and comprehend the life and times of its inhabitants; it was a rural and relatively peaceful time having occurred not all that long ago, and which still appears to hold a tangibility enough to allow one to just about reach back and grasp its fading light.

Alexander Nasmyth - View of the City of Edinburgh
Alexander Nasmyth: View of the City of Edinburgh, circa 1800’s

David Starkey on Mary Queen of Scots ‘a whore and a trollop and a murderess’ and then accusing Scotland of ‘adoring failure’ while he was at it.

Clearly Starkey knows no female Scottish Monarch other than the world famous and easily recognizable Mary Queen of Scots, otherwise he would have picked out a more legitimate and obscure target with which to direct his inane snark too. Besides, as a woman she was arguably a vastly more intelligent individual than he likes to think himself to be; reputed to have been a bright, gifted and immensely talented woman whose long list of skills included playing the lute, poetry, prose, falconry, and horsemanship, as well as having been in possession of a linguistic proficiency that would be hard to beat even today, being fluent in French, Latin, Spanish, Greek, Italian and, of course, Scots.

‘a whore and a trollop’ Well, all I can think of as to how he reached this conclusion of character is by the portraits of Mary herself, of which reveal a strikingly captivating and attractive woman who was considered by her contemporaries to have been a beautiful child, and later, woman.

mary queen of Scots
A death mask, morbid, but nonetheless point proving.

For what its worth, Mary was also an elegant 5′ 11 tall, with a long supple neck, pale, flawless skin and flowing auburn hair, and all in stark contrast to Starkey’s rotund, balding, four-eyed little 5′ 7-5′ 8 frame. A wee touch of the green eyed monster, indeed, me’thinks.

Oink, oink…”

She was also married three times it has to be said, and that is probably where Starkey draws his conclusion from. However, far from the loose woman three marriages might make her seem like to a shriveled little specky pig-nosed geek, the first was actually a treaty outwith her control and put into effect when she was an infant, of which was dissolved upon her husbands death from meningitis. Hardly a whore. The second, to her cousin , Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, was one of convenience and fairly practical for royalty during that period, and certainly nothing so scandalous or note worthy enough to have gained her a reputation as a trollop; not by the standards of the age, nor today. The marriage was dissolved due to a bad case of murder having befallen Darnley. The third marriage, forced upon her, very literally, by Lord Bothwell, who kidnapped and raped her by way of some twisted sense of courting, was to be the last of her nuptials. The marriage ended with Bothwell fleeing her side after defeat at Carberry Hill, never to be seen again. murderess, whore, trollop, all of the above, or simply an unfortunate spouse? You decide.

‘The only victory [Scots] have ever celebrated is Bannockburn; the rest is about wallowing in failure. They even have special music for failure – it’s called bagpipes.’

Me: We hardly celebrate it though, to be honest. It was one of our finest moments, but far from the only such occasion. Essentially, we rode across the Bannock on a bridge compromised of the slaughtered and pulverized corpses of English invaders, 25000-30000 to be exact. Really; whats not to celebrate?

The music of failure? The very same music that drove the English like sheep from Scotland’s fertile, verdant countryside? The very same thunder whose effects upon Starkey’s kind were enough to have it outlawed as a weapon of war.


The very same stirring skrill that is not only instantly recognizable and appreciated around the world, but singularly unique and heart-swellingly uplifting? No; failure doesn’t strike terror into the hearts of Englishmen, nor does it represent the passions of a nation quite as well as the Bagpipes do.

But, it is understandable that Starkey hates them, or at the very least, assumes an air of contempt for them publicly; because they are Scottish, and England doesn’t have its own instrument. Its as simple as that. What else could it be, for where does such deep-seated hatred, venom and contempt stem from, if not base jealously? Oh, look there!

Turnip, turnip…”

Tis the pudgy, pig-nosed face of envy rearing up once again. Quick, everyone, wave to the sentient turnip!

Cinead MacAlpin.

Titles and Foodbanks

Give me your land! That’s not a request, it’s a demand. Why? Because I was born into an inbred family of attic dwelling monsters whose whim it is to garner and gather all peerage and hollow rank it is that allows them to lord it over stretches of foreign countries of which they have no stake nor claim, by birth or blood, to inherit.

What am I talking about; the English royal family, that’s who. Prince Charles in particular, or, as all his worthless, and unearned titles would have him named: His Royal Highness The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, KG, KT, GCB, OM, AK, CC, QSO, PC, ADC, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland.


Duke of Rothesay? Earl of Carrick? Baron of Renfrew? Lord of the-fucking-Isles?! And the Great Steward of Scotland? By what right does that feeble little German runt dare think himself the Lord of the Isles? A title of loftier rank than any his Incestual blood should merit, or warrant. He is no Lord of the Isles, and certainly no descendant of Somerled, and yet there it is, right in his long-winded and pompously archaic name. The Lord of the Isles has nothing to do with his English heritage, or his Germanic, Russian, Swiss, Dutch, Romanian and sundry other ancestral ties, and so by what right does he have to proclaim himself thus? And who is his mother to doll out such names in the first place.


And what about the Great Steward of Scotland; a title given to those men whom served a legitimate Scottish monarch; who were created to serve the nation, and its king unyieldingly, and against the English, I might add. What has that vegetable crooner ever done to steward the fate of Scotland, other than wear a Kilt like a fucking tourist anytime he’s sniffing about Balmoral?* Nothing; he’s done nothing for this country, yet gets to shower himself with our ancient peerage, and simply on account of having the most tenuous links to our noble ancestors; literally one ancestor of his was Scottish; hell, I have more Celtic noble ancestry than that ineffectual little shite, so where is my rank and brass; where is my castle and knighthood and issue?


You see, I don’t get one because my mentally unhinged and incestuous ancestors weren’t heathen warmongers who slew, razed, shattered and raped the citizens of a neighboring country through a greedy lust for riches and status and acclaim; to dominate and control all of which they deemed should be there’s alone. I don’t get one, and yet they get to retain their grip on Scotland out of tradition alone; they, whose ancestors raped and murdered us. That is what these titles represent, and that is where they originate; the issue of murderers; dominance.

Ask yourself: does a stranger deserve to proclaim himself’ lord of your back garden? A stranger whose dad literally just hooked your elderly mum in the jaw; does that man then get to sit on your back fence and demand a fistful of money to fuel up his Aston martin, which is also, incidentally, parked in your garage? Ridiculous!

And what’s more, they never earned a single one of their damned titles, or the medals they so smugly wear pinned to their chests; prince Phillip never saw any action during the wars, and yet his old tits sag with cheery little adornments; same with prince harry and his balding gimp of a brother William; they did as little fighting as I do on any online battlefield match. Its utterly disgusting that in this day and age we still allow such empty and archaic practices to endure, that this family’s ambition is still tolerated; that we still raise them up by their fluke of birth alone, when we should tear them down and see how they like living in a one bedroom flat on Jobseekers like half the fucking rest of the country they lord it over does!

spot the difference

Men and women should earn these things, not simply be given them as an afterthought to their arranged-marriage-birth, like nicknames a month into a new school year, you have to earn them. That’s the thing that gets me; that the pale and sickly children of the nobility get everything given to them, when you or I have to work for everything we have. Why should some little plum-mouthed shit be raised above me, without ever having contributed anything to the society above which they perch like fattened and loth crows? What use is the rank, Viscount, to a three year old anyway?

a fucking joke
Food for the people, or a Knighthood for a Fetus?

In fact, you know what; I’m the Lord of the Isles now; a MacDonald of Clanranald, man! MacPhadrain, MacIan, MacSeamus, MacRae, MacAlpin, MacGregor, Howie, and Douglas! So, give me your land, and give me your money prince Charles; and I’ll tell you what, unlike you, there are plenty of soldiers in my family who were never burdened with as many service medals as you are (Stolen Valor), and I bet you they have/had seen more action than you or any of your pampered offspring ever did; certainly, they never had an attack helicopter cockpit, or the hull of a warship out in the Atlantic, to protect them when the rockets fell like fucking apocalyptic hail, or when the ambushes were sprung, or the bullets begun ripping concrete from the cover around them; every single man in my entire family, is whom I speak of, from the Napoleonic wars and Jacobite risings, through to WW1/WW2, the Falkland’s and into Afghanistan and Iraq. I deserve to be steward, and I deserve to be a king far more than you ever will you big-eared, gnome-looking Dumbo son of an inbred bitch.

You and your attic-breeders have no sway over me, and I do not acknowledge you or your rule. You are kings and queens of England, never Scotland. You are nothing; meaningless; indistinguishable from the rest of your ilk. Stay in England, and leave Scotland for us Scots. Oh; but enjoy those medals your mummy gave you Charlie, cause you aint’ ever getting the throne from the ol’ hag. So there is that, at least.

Author: His Royal Highness Cinead MacAlpin, Prince of Scotland, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland, a MacDonald of Clanranald, MacPhadrain, MacIan, MacSeamus, MacRae, MacAlpin, MacGregor, Howie, and a Douglas.

P.S If your still reading this far. Happy Hogmanay, and best o’ luck in the New Year, I suppose. Now, I’m awa tae crack open a bottle o’ ten year old ‘Jura Origins’ Scotch.

Slàinte mhòr.


To back up, or not to back up…

Britain should disown the US if it launched a “preventative” attack against North Korea to stop it developing nuclear weapons, according to a leading military think tank.

Is the foreword on the Sky news websites article: ‘Scenes of carnage’ if North Korea crisis escalates into war, British report warns

Sky: The unusually blunt advice from the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI), which is the intellectual powerhouse behind the UK’s military establishment, comes amid growing concerns that such an attack is being seriously contemplated by Donald Trump’s administration. They write.

Me: Oh, what is this? The “special relationship” doesn’t seem all that special now, does it? England preparing to abandon its “closest ally” when things start to look dicey; when a real sense of danger wafts through the air, England suddenly finds its resolve wanting; like a dog barking at the gate, only to high-tail it for the front door when the gate swings open. And this just shows you how much of a shit-show the Westminster government truly is; they make grand promises and assurances, and then buckle under any real pressure; they scramble from their hill of strength the moment a threat approaches.

And here was me thinking that America was our greatest ally; and so since when do allies abandon one another? Isn’t the whole point of fostering alliances solely to provide back-up for either party in the eventuality of war? Sure, trade agreements that mutually benefit either country are by-products of such partnerships, as is continuing peace; but what good is peace and trade, if one half of the deal is armed to the teeth and sailing the waves of the Yellow Sea? Is this the sort of alliance America needs; an England already planning to abandon it in what could become a major world conflict? Now of course, America really doesn’t need England, or the rest of Britain as a whole; America is a powerhouse, a giant and a god of war. So who cares, right? So what; let England scurry away like a cowardly dog, eh?

Britain (England FYI)

But then what does that truly say about any such special relationship? Of course America doesn’t need us, but does that mean that we shouldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with them? Does that mean that we shouldn’t live and die in our convictions as a country that stands by its principles and its word? If we say we have your back, should we not then have your back, regardless even if our friend is big enough and strong enough to handle himself without us?

Sky: A RUSI report says the UK “should refuse to rush into unconditional support for US action” if the US was to attack North Korea in an attempt to prevent it from further developing the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

Me: Now listen, anyone who is familiar with my blog will know that I’m fairly isolationist, and also don’t agree with Scotland sticking its nose into places it doesn’t belong; but Scotland is in Britain, and Britain seems to cling to the teat of America, and so much so that it peddles this notion of Britain and America as brothers-in-arms, and as the best of friends of which the English controlled media that plagues Britain as a whole often likes to force-feed us on a daily basis; so as a Scotsmen, I feel compelled to point out that if America does go to war, then so should we. It’s as simple as that, and that’s my two cents worth on the matter; we should fight alongside them come what may, and not because of some ridiculous idea of brotherhood, but simply for the sake of self-respect and honor! Otherwise what are we but cowards and back-biters on an international scale not to be taken seriously? Isn’t it funny just how hollow the English government now seems as it rolls over and offers its undulating and pendulous belly to the world? And think, what if America was to win this theoretical war, would it not then shun Britain for ever more; leaving us friendless and at the back of the cue for any resulting reconstruction contracts and positions of governance and influence on the post-war world stage? Way to think ahead, British cowards; in your rancid fear, you would potentially throw away whatever shred of credibility you have left to skulk under the desk whilst humming with your fingers stuck in your ears as you assume the fettle position.

Sky: In the report, author Professor Malcolm Chalmers writes: “(The UK) should make it clear that it had not been asked for its views in advance and that it would not have supported military action even if it had been asked.”

Me: So what? If America goes to war with North Korea, then Britain automatically becomes a target regardless of whether or not we declare a side, what with it having up until then proclaimed itself America’s chief parasite. Is North Korea, or even China, or Russia really going to care if Britain distances itself from America, when eventually it’s probably going to join the war at some point anyway? So would it not make sense then for the east to make a preventative strike of their own to thwart that eventuality? Yet, if Britain was in the fight from the very beginning, then we would at least have our guard up from the get-go, and perhaps be better equipped to deal with any such attack in the first place for having a firm grasp on who our enemy is and where the strikes are likely to manifest. War doesn’t care about gestures, it only cares about threats; Britain is a threat, whether or not it cowardly shrinks from the fray meantime, Britain would still be a threat by proxy.

Sky: “Casualties in such a conflict would likely reach the hundreds of thousands, even if no nuclear weapons were used. There could be far-reaching consequences for the global economy, involving sustained disruption of vital supply chains and markets.” 

Me: I’ll let Joseph Dunford, chairman of the US joint chiefs of staff respond to that one: “We can’t let a madman with nuclear weapons let on the loose like that. We have a lot of firepower, more than he has times 20, but we don’t want to use it… I hope China solves the problem. But if China doesn’t do it, we’ll do it”


But, at the end of the day, would America really be all that surprised by England’s lack of a spine in such tense, trying times? Of course they wouldn’t; why would they? America is well aware that all Britain is good for is bending at the waist to accommodate their’ slippered feet upon its back. America doesn’t need Britain. Britain needs America, because without them, the empire 2.0 would be steam rolled into oblivion the moment the ships left Portsmouth. So, in understanding that, you would think that the sniveling cowards down at Westminster would be prostrating their feeble bodies in an effort to clamber around America’s feet and swear allegiance to their boot-straps only to fool themselves into, and continue on, with the belief that America will make them great again.

no brainer
One is powerful, and the other thinks its powerful

Man up, or shut up; for if it was to come to blows, and then maybe even escalates into some sort of an actual major world conflict; sides will have to be taken. And I don’t know about you, but I prefer fighting fresh, than already bloody. And sure, people would die, but then, people will die whether or not they are holding a gun or not. I come from a military family, I feel I should point out; with every man all the way back and to the Jacobite risings having been a soldier, or in some branch of the military, and so would no doubt have immediate family fighting in any such conflict, yet I’m perfectly fine with that; soldiers are soldiers, and they are trained to kill and die, that’s their entire job description; and so I don’t care about projected casualties, both military, and civilian, because again, people die en masse when wars are fought between powerful entities, and that’s no reason not to fight, and it’s no reason to go back on one’s word, and its certainly no reason to abandon ones ally.

And look, I’m not a warmonger, nor do I have a Michael Bayesque hard-on for guns and explosions, but sometimes wars solve problems, or at the very least, they solve problems for future generations in hindsight. Again, I wouldn’t relish war for the sake of war alone, but from a pragmatic standpoint, North Korea is threatening world stability, it is a menace to peace and is arming itself for conflict, and so needs to be put in its place by a firm hand, and if that means war, then what other recourse is there to counter such a flagrant and openly hostile threat. Diplomacy? Please; ever heard of the catastrophic diplomatic effort known as The Age of Appeasement?

age of appeasement


Cinead MacAlpin.







Thoughts after a Night Spent In a Pub Booth in the Company of Students

You have these conversations with folk in the pubs sometimes, wherein immediately, and by those of a similar age to myself, and who most likely attend college or university, instantly decry you as a racist if you so much as voice an opinion that is against such a thing as mass immigration, or interventions, or of the sending out of foreign aid or whatever. They seem to suddenly wall themselves off then, and almost shut down, as though their own fragile sense of self and world view are such, that even the merest whisper of a pragmatic, or detached observation on the current climate and its causation’s and effects, is somehow going to herald in an apocalypse in the form of Nazi’s atop four flying panzers.

This took me ages to make on MS paint

It’s ridiculous, and it’s pathetic, and it’s infuriating, that a group of grown men and women can’t just sit in a pub and shot the shit for a time, without a number swooning at only the most flirtatious of forays into the world of politics. When did men stop being men, and start being limp-wristed half-men and weaklings? I’m in my mid-twenties, and even I remember a time before this sudden reversal in society’s advancement, and that is what this is; the degradation of society through censorship, fascism and the self-aggrandizing egotistical need of some to have their own ingrained narcissism cloaked as virtuousness; where no one person can seem to look outside of the rhetoric force-fed them by those desperate to seem heroic or worth something, and who so take the easiest root to this position in the form of conceited virtue signaling. They don’t have to fight for it, and really face no danger, nor hardship. They are heroes for the sake of all around them fearing nonexistent conflict. They are raised aloft on shaking shoulders by others who draw strength from a movement that is inherently compromised by weak individuals, and so thrusts them no further against anything that would truly be worth fighting against. Simply put, they are cowards who try and look big and brave flailing at monsters entirely of their own design.

sjw imagination

Whelp; Just this past week, in fact, I happened to have taken an impromptu sojourn down through to Auld Reekie; not the cheapest place for a simple man to find a drink mind you; but there I found myself nonetheless. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with that particular city, Edinburgh is wonderful; historically, and architecturally. Yet; were it not for the odd Saltire or tacky gift shop, then one would be hard pressed to declare the city as of Scotland at all; tourists everywhere, and accents, wherein no two are alike, gathered in squares, and collected from all around the world. It’s a cosmopolitan city, like London, only prettier, safer, and, well, better. Anyway; I arrived their early, and got to the drinking likewise. And soon I found myself in the company of a handful of students; artsy types with pube-like goatees and foppish haircuts mid-way between styled and wind-tussled; not exactly the sort of folks in whose circles I would usually walk, but the afternoon started out well enough I suppose; a wee bit o’ banter, banal chatter and some laughing here and there, but then, the conversation soon encroached upon the fringes of politics, and where suddenly, all of these sallow, sunken eyed vegans all at once became the liberal equivalents of Alex Jones; only without the endearing guilelessness that make his mad rants amusing.

alex jones
Alex Jones: Topless and having just finished his dinner

There was talk of Brexit, of course, and of the EU; Syria and the resulting refugee crisis; the usual fodder for such lofty patrons to dissect, as was my company, and whose very identity as students alone, seemed to compel them to the highest echelon of obnoxiousness even before the first drink. Now all of this I could tolerate, for I have much to say on these things also, and yet; sitting there in a nice pub in Scotland’s fair capital, I was soon subjected to ill-informed, half-hearted and stunted ramblings on, and misguided understandings of one, Donald J Trump, and by a group of sickly looking students, who, at several points would pause, needing prompts and coaxing from the others when the limits of their understandings and opinion were found wanting after the first reiteration of the buzz lines circulating within their Facebook feeds; Donald Trump; who has nothing to do with them, nor I; Donald Trump, a man from another country who has no effect on their day to day lives, whatsoever. Oh what an absorbing and cerebral discourse it proved to be.

The School of Athens by Raphael
The School of Athens by Raphael

Now, what is my point here, and why did this annoy me so much? Good question and I’ll tell you. It annoys me because it has nothing to do with us. Whoever is in the Whitehouse has absolutely no effect on Scotland whatsoever! None at all; it’s all but virtue signaling and the vapid, self-absorbed circle-jerking of ones ego in the eyes of a castrated choir preaching the same hymn to affect outrage at his being elected. And also, I just can’t abide shallow parasites. Now look; America doesn’t care about Scotland all that much, and truth be told, Scotland doesn’t care all that much about America; in the same way as we don’t really bother with Papua New Guinea, or the Antarctic; we are but ships in the night, not wishing harm upon the other, but just indifferent in the passing, and not all that interested in dropping anchor and hopping aboard the others vessel. There is no ill will behind it, but America is, simply put, a behemoth content to stomp about its hill for a time, whereas we are the foxes whom have no real business commenting on the affairs of giants. And so who are these idealistic liberals to congratulate one another’s self-serving opinions born of the most basic of sound bites parroted as they heard them on the news that morning, to be so quick to proclaim virtue and honesty, love and compassion, and yet descend upon me with feeble claws the instant I should deviate from their indoctrinated path?

“Donald Trump’s a fascist” One sneered, yet offered no substantial proof to that effect. “Really? But he isn’t the one punching people, or clubbing their skulls in with bike-locks because they espouse a different opinion” I replied, in that same flat, vaguely incredulous tone of voice one would adopt if conversing with a drunk houseplant. “He’s racist” Came another; the pretentious little shits eyes bloodshot, yet no less menacing beneath his dandy fringe of curly brown hair. “How?” I speared. “Cause of the ban; man…” He parried deftly; unaware that Barack Obama did the exact same thing previously. And when he was told of this, well, up went the blinkers and down came the fascist soviet hammer, though admittedly in the fashion of a tired old dog sitting in the park and refusing to move; to scoot an inch in any one direction as its owner tugs and coaxes gently at the leash, as I was apt to have found myself then attempting, and all the while thinking who cares, and, why are we even talking about this shit? And, what has any of this nonsense got to do with us? In my attempt at remaining impartial and objective, it was I who was painted as the fascist, and it was I who was deemed the bigot for not taking up their outrage, and for playing devil’s advocate so as to ingratiate topics and points into the conversation by which to enliven and expand it into something interesting and thought provoking.

Side note: Not once did I challenge any opinion vomited fourth, but simply offered a differing one. I was respectful, and only slightly sarcastic, and never raised my voice above a speaking level when addressing any of these rabid little runts. And yet, these principled and virtuous souls were comfortable with yelling and shouting me down when I was presumptuous enough to offer up an actual verifiable fact to the contrary of that currently farted out into their echo chamber. I should also note that I was the only one in that booth who appeared robust enough to overcome constipation, without blowing my rib cage and spine out through my arsehole in the process.

Anyway, let’s get back on with my tortured dog metaphor; a dog needs discipline, and if you baby it, it won’t listen, nor respect you. You have to be both fair, and firm. You don’t pussy-foot around a stubborn dog like it’s a baby taking its first teetering steps, and so neither should you pussy-foot around faux intellectuals and half-men who see merit in subservience and cowardice, and who couldn’t look their own cock in the eye if they needed to drink their own piss to stave of dehydration in the desert! And so, the point of this meandering, and somewhat rambling rant is this: I just don’t understand what’s happening to my generation. When I was under twenty, all the lads wanted to be seen as men, and most of the lassies wanted to be with a man. There was none of this degenerative and regressive bullshit back then, folk just got on with their daily lives and didn’t take too much offence to every little fucking thing that happened to irk them that day. I don’t want this American phenomenon of SJW half-men infecting Scotland with its insidious, rotten, and hypocritical ideology. But, I understand that America exports its culture worldwide; cheeseburgers, fries, milkshakes, and Hollywood blockbusters and whatnot; and that’s all fantastic! But for God sake; Keep that abhorrent and emasculating dogma to yourselves lads, because quite frankly; it’s fucking embarrassing.

sjw logic
SJW’s diminishing the devastation caused by rape

And so, I couldn’t believe that there I was, in Scotland, and listening to these insufferable idiots drone on with barely a constructive argument among them; and I looked at them and thought; you know what, this world is going to eat you all alive; but then realized that no, in fact, it isn’t, because this is the way the world is actually heading; effeminate men too afraid to ask a girl out, and women who think being overweight is a good thing; wee bairns being told they’re fairy’s and he-she’s and all manner of sundry other fanciful things, when they should be told what they are firmly, and leave the soul searching and identity crisis’s for a time when their brains are fully developed enough for them to process the multitude of urges and emotions, hormones and psychological conundrums such thoughts must surely bear.

Now listen; I’m all for equality among the sexes, and of gay marriage; each to their own; do what feels right, and be who you gotta be, and all that. My belief is that one should live one’s life, and do so in a manner which makes life worth living in the first place. I don’t care if your gay or straight, transgender or whatever; I simply don’t care; that is, as long as you don’t try and force it down my throat and make trouble where no such trouble occurs. You aren’t freedom fighters battling against a tyrannical oppressor. You aren’t civil rights campaigners risking life and freedom in a dire struggle to pursue equal rights and liberty. You don’t face any adversity that can’t be overcome by hard work and the setting and following of personal goals. You are just a bunch of whiny little shits with too much free time on your hands, and who are fortunate enough to live in countries where your sniveling rhetoric is tolerated. Get over yourselves, get a job, and maybe try and contribute to changing society in a meaningful way, say, as a soldier, or a UN peacekeeper, or as a politician who can actually affect change in a rundown or deprived area. But no; that would be too much like hard work now, wouldn’t it?


Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth’– Matthew 5:5. And right enough! And has the Bible ever prophesied a more concrete conclusion in all its years than that particular doozy?

Cinead MacAlpin.

Throwing stones in glass houses


‘-Your clan names, your popular culture was imported by the Gaels, from Ireland’

Ah, tah bay shore boyo! But seriously, Clans, they don’t exist in Ireland. It’s as simple as that, so why are you trying to take credit for them? I don’t give one fuck if you have family names in Ireland, they still aren’t Clans; why? Because the Clans you’re thinking off, are Scottish Clans, which happen to be the only type of Clans in the world. Why is this? Because we took familial names, loose tribal confederacy’s of blood and bondage between chieftains and their people, and turned it into a paragon of our culture. Tartans, Kilts, Clan badges, crests, motto’s and war-cries; these are all a product of Scottish Clans, because we made it so. We turned these family names into something more, rather than letting them simply remain names.

Do you understand that? And do you also understand that the English have familial surnames common to groups of people, and of regional specificity. Yet, just like the Irish people having common or shared ancestral or regional surnames, they also did nothing with them, other than bear them. See, any culture in the world with a similar naming structure as Britain, could just as easily have developed a similarly unique familial structure of common, or perceived commonality among its population, as Scotland had, and continues to do so. Just because Ireland and Scotland are similar, and just because Ireland gave us our language, and the suffix Mac to signify ‘Son of’; in no way gives you the right to lay claim over anything Scottish as a result, and certainly not the Clan system.

For example; does England get to say they landed a man on the moon, simply for having been the Americans’ foundational ethnicity?

Moving on, and of course, Whiskey’ and Scots Gaelic’ are mentioned. Whelp, first off, it’s Whisky, not Whiskey. Whiskey, in fact, applies only to the iodine the Americans are so fond off, and to your own inferior brand of mouth wash. Secondly, according to Wikipedia:

The art of distillation spread to Ireland and Scotland no later than the 15th century, as did the common European practice of distilling “aqua vitae” or spirit alcohol primarily for medicinal purposes. The practice of medicinal distillation eventually passed from a monastic setting to the secular via professional medical practitioners of the time, The Guild of Barber Surgeons The earliest Irish mention of whisky comes from the seventeenth-century Annals of Clonmacnoise, which attributes the death of a chieftain in 1405 to “taking a surfeit of aqua vitae” at Christmas. In Scotland, the first evidence of whisky production comes from an entry in the Exchequer Rolls for 1494 where malt is sent “To Friar John Cor, by order of the king, to make aquavitae”, enough to make about 500 bottles.

So, form the above, what can we confer? Well, the earliest mention of Whiskey in Ireland was written down in the 1600’s, but concerns the 1400’s; whereas, in Scotland, we have actual evidence of it having been in production in 1494, from actual records from that period. Also worth noting, is the fact that Scotch, as is the proper denomination for Scottish produced Whisky, and Irish Whiskey do not in fact originate in either country, and is not, and was not, a product of a Gaelic mind. That is a fact. But, because Scotch is so popular, but the Irish also make it, but don’t always get credit for that one pointless boast, this individual simply seems to be butt hurt that Ireland isn’t getting the same attention as Scotland is in that particular thread of random comments, on a random YouTube video.

‘The Pictish peoples that populated the land that would later be named Scotland DID NOT HAVE this naming convention’

387–412: Talorc mac Achiuir: Pictish King of the 3rd century; his rule occurring two hundred years before the establishment of the Gaelic Kingdom of Dal Riada. Make of that as you will. Also, who cares if the suffix Mac, or Mc, arrived in Scotland from Ireland? We have Gaelic blood, ancestry and heritage, and what of it? Does that make an Irishman feel smug? Does that somehow prove something, that we Scot’s have a good portion of our identity inexplicitly entwined with that of ancient Ireland, suddenly makes all of our culture yours for the taking? It was millennia ago that our Gaelic ancestors left Ireland, by the way; you realize that? And the Gaels weren’t even Irish, they were Gaels, you realize that also; yes? Don’t try and tear down my fucking culture, because you’re also on shaky fucking ground, my Irish friend:

Gaelic Ireland (Irish: Éire Ghaidhealach) was the Gaelic political and social order, and associated culture, that existed in Ireland from the prehistoric era until the early 17th century. Before the Norman invasion of 1169, Gaelic Ireland comprised the whole island. Thereafter, it comprised that part of the country not under foreign dominion at a given time. For most of its history, Gaelic Ireland was a ‘patchwork’ hierarchy of territories ruled by a hierarchy of kings or chiefs, who were elected through tanistry.

Did you read that part about the 17th century, and the bit about the Norman invasion? See, Ireland isn’t perfectly Gaelic, and it would be so, so easy for me to point out just how drastically it wasn’t always Gaelic at numerous stages of its history; the 9th century Vikings, for instance, who founded many settlements along your coastlines, inlets, and waterways, that then became your first major towns; the populations of which would have been partly Norse. Or what about the five-eight hundred or so years of English occupation, eh:

After the Norman invasion of 1169–71, large swathes of Ireland came under the control of Norman lords, leading to centuries of conflict with the native Irish. The King of England claimed sovereignty over this territory – the Lordship of Ireland – and the island as a whole. However, the Gaelic system continued in areas outside Anglo-Norman control.

In 1542, Henry VIII of England declared the Lordship a Kingdom and himself King of Ireland. The English then began to conquer (or re-conquer) the island. By 1607, Ireland was fully under English control, bringing the old Gaelic political and social order to an end. – Wikipedia

Oh, what’s that; Gaelic culture was all but wiped out in Ireland for several hundred years! Oh my! So much for Irelands fabled ‘warrior heritage’…see how I smoothly segued that part in there…But honestly, seriously, speaking of warriors and warfare, Scotland kicked Irelands arse several times, in fact, out of roughly five major conflicts between our two countries, Scotland won either four, or three out of five. Sure, you fought England, but they fucking conquered you lot, completely, and for several centauries; that’s nothing to be proud of boys. Scotland, however, was never conquered, by any one. Rome couldn’t do it, nor could the Danish Vikings, Anglo-Saxons, Normans, or the English! Hell, the Vikings were terrified of us Scots, and so much so that they went ahead and wrote what amounted to pamphlets warning others of their kind from even traveling to Scotland, such was the danger from the ferocious and war-like natives! ‘Warrior heritage’? Really; we Scots have dominated battlefields all across the continents. American four star generals have written books about the courage and valor of the Scottish soldier. The French kings, and Viking ones, used us as bodyguards; The Garde Écossaise:

The Scottish leaders were persuaded to return to Scotland to recruit more troops. The Scottish leadership returned in 1420 with another 4000-5000 reinforcements. While their leaders were at home the Dauphin assigned the Scottish contingent throughout his armies and garrisons and picked a number, roughly one hundred of the best warriors, to be his personal body guard. The Scotsmen fought with distinction throughout France with a notable win at the Battle of Baugé in 1421, where the Duke of Clarence was said to have been felled by Buchan’s Mace.

And what of the Gallowglass mercenary’s, mainly MacDonald Clansmen? Those Scottish-Norse warriors dominated Irish battlefields for decade, after bloody decade; Scottish soldiers sorting out problems the native Irish couldn’t stomach. Should I go on? There’s Sir John Hepburn and the Green Brigade; look him up, as he was described as ‘The Greatest fighting man in Christendom’ or what about the 92nd, or the 73rd? What about the Redshank mercenaries? What about the terror Scottish soldiers struck within the hearts of the Nazi’s during WW1/2; do the ‘Devils in skirts’ ring a bell? What about the lone Scottish soldier who captured six hundred Germans, single-handedly. Or the last bayonet charge mounted in modern history, wherein around fifteen to twenty Scottish soldiers, out of ammo, and with only fixed bayonets, charged around thirty Taliban insurgents after their armored personal carrier had been struck by a rocket launcher; of those thirty well-armed insurgents, all had been killed, with only one Scotsman wounded. Did I forget to mention that the Taliban still had a fucking rocket launcher on them! I can keep going by the way, after all; you’re the one that started this pissing contest, à la ‘It’s a shame you Scots didn’t also borrow this part of Irish culture’- the funniest thing an Irishman has ever come away with, since they decided that ‘crack’ was spelt ‘Craic’ and that it was a magical fairy word meaning merriment and mirth. It’s not, BTW


Anyway, now feels like as good a point as any to state that Scotland eventually joined with England, not through conquest, but political scheming, whereas Ireland was utterly beaten into submission by them. Yet this guy, he thinks that just because his people finally, eventually, got around to freeing themselves of the English, means that they’re somehow now totally bad ass, you know; for doing something that Scotland did consistently, and for centuries beforehand. Remember lads, you lot were under the boot heel, but we Scots were just under the thumb; and through it all, all that struggle and strife, repeated attempts at conquest and decimation, attempted cultural genocide and suppression of native identity; we Scots retained our dignity, and our pride! We remained on our feet! We never knelt, nor bowed our heads!

Now, to any Irish person reading this; listen. I’m proud of my ancient Irish heritage, as all Scots should be. I’m proud, and grateful, that Ireland shared its beautiful language with us, and lastly, I’m also proud of the enduring bond our two wonderful countries share, but; if you want to try and tear down my heritage and culture, then you make sure you’re standing on solid fucking ground first.


“My Staff Has Murdered Giants”

From the 45 who voted to re-establish the Scottish nation, and to those who would fly the flag and enjoin hands in Auld Lang Syne, and yet tug it downward whence the chorus commenced; wherein our story, could the promise from a snake so sway opinion against the better judgement of history? Were we not fortified against such machinations; such coercion’s and toils an aw tha; that treason couldn’t sell us, even in this interconnected world? What luck to wish for!

Farewell to all our Scottish fame, and farewell our ancient glory. Farewell even to the Scottish name, so famed in marshal story!” Some would relent. Yet what is patriotism against a well-worn government, when your own is powerless to act against such opposition?

“Such a parcel of rouges in a nation” Others would de-cry! But deny themselves’ the realization that it was the very nation of which they hold so dear, whom had sold themselves for a pittance and petty promise. Who do we have to blame for our sorry state of affairs; truly? “That I saw the day, that treason thus would sell us. My old grey head was lain in clay; with Bruce, and loyal Wallace-“ What words! Evocative, rousing and inspiring; yet only when Auld Lang Syne, or Flower o’ Scotland bears down upon the ear; Whisky mist and swimming pride; buoyed by the presence of Scottish voices intermingled with that hollow, Sunday Nationalism!  Who indeed, today, would lay their old grey head within such vaulted clay?

What is it we actually fear; an afternoon wherein our rolling heads are but a spectacle to amuse the Queens garden party? Are we not past the point of endurance; are we not resolved to cry traitor and set our country free! “Freedom and right!” Treason and crowns, and all such glimmer should neither distract us, nor detract our shrug of the Saxon! For when has a crown, even gold or platinum, ever instructed a Scotsman beyond that which he was willing?

Never! For, over two thousand years, we have wiped out their best fighting men; Saxons and Normans; Romans; Danes and Norwegians; not one of them could conquer us; us savages’ and beasts! For our entire history, as a people, a nation, a culture; we have feared no betrayal to the Saxon. Not once have we ever shunned their intentions; not once! We had fought them every time; outnumbered five-to-one, even; victorious in each dance! But even still, our nation is plagued with foul blood; Unionists and Monarchists; Orange Order thugs, and Rangers supporters. Protestants, and quislings; that my own protestant blood curdles to be thought among their sickly number! If my hand was to be forced, then I would clutch the badge of Celtic, over Rangers, and hold it to my chest as the punches rained down. Were it not for my Kin, then I would accept the Romany Faith in my heart; that I would be one step closer to all those who had set to see my country free. Catholic, Irish-Catholic, Protestant, and everywhere in between; are we not Scottish in blood and name, that we might see ourselves set apart as Scottish men?

Apparently not. Even when every page has been gilded with suffering and plots; that the book weighs upon the arm just to turn the page; we forgive and we forget. We forget that we are the most downtrodden people alive. That we alone, are the only people to have ever held the key to our shackles, and thus swallowed it dutifully. “What force Argyll could not subdue, through many war-like ages. His rod now by a coward fear, for hiring coward’s wages-“ Why wouldn’t we have wanted freedom? This I ask openly and honestly, as a man who couldn’t conceive of ever voting against such a thing. Is the bond so fast that one would feel a kinship to the Saxon? The very same which only two hundred years ago, we had sat upon our hills and watched, merrily, as they died of the Bubonic Plague? The very same that has dogged us every step of our existence? Will our country survive this millennium, this century; or will we succumb wholly to the corruption of spirit that is “Britishness!”

Will we ever be a nation again? Or will we simply placate ourselves with the idea that “As Long As There’s One Hundred O’ Scots Remain Alive” Someone else will secure our future! “Or Tae Victory!” Shall we cry, “Chains and Slavery. Wha will be a traitor knave, wha can fill a cowards grave, wha sae base as be a slave; let him turn an flee. Wha for Scotland’s King and Law, freedom’s sword will strongly draw; free men stand, or free men faw; let him follow me! Scots wha hae wie Wallace bleed, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, welcome tae your gory bed; or tae victory! By oppressions woes and pains, by yer sons in servile chains; we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! Lay the proud usurper low; tyrants fall in every foe; liberty’s in every blow; let us do or die! Scots wha hae wie Wallace bleed, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, welcome tae your gory bed, or tae victory!”

And so wherein lays the source of this self-destructive fear, or doubt? A genuine question. What could so sell Scotland, and your Scottishness, that you would trade it all for the moniker: British? Is there no inspiration in our own language; our stories or legends; that would give you pause if only you took the time to acknowledge them? Can you not find even a glimmer of hope, or creativity, within the example of those who came before; their innovations within, and teachings of Mathematics; philosophy, and science? “By yon bonnie braes and by thine bonny banks” Are you so blind to the value and worth within your own self, that the accomplishments of your people fall so dully upon your heart!

To any Scotsman or woman reading this; this question is meant solely for you to answer: If all was to end badly, then would you stand by your own folk; or allow the inevitable to paint you as a coward? Should your nation be threatened; would you cover your eyes and submit, or die in the ruins alongside your people?

I love Scotland. From her velvet green thighs, to her fearsomely craggy curves which lie between tranquil Lochs, and vulgar hips; mountains spurring to thrust at the sky amid rolling landscapes of bog, bracken and thistle. Lovely eyes as moody as midnight, or serene as silver bands; she remains, calm and modest in her own magnificence, and as a revelation to the waning spirit as any joy therein. Scotland is my mother; wet-nurse, and companion. And I will always love her more dearly than life itself. Pray to God that I should never require reason enough in which to prove that statement. Scotland to me is truly life itself.

And now I ask you again; were your life to be threatened by the barrel of a gun aimed for your head; would you kneel before the gun as a coward; or, attempt to beat to death with your fists, the very fucker who’s pointing it at you?

I for one would want to die in such a manner! To find myself with nothing to lose; all odds against me, and with the guns of an overwhelming enemy arranged there against! For there is a glory in that; honor! To grin at your foe, and to let him know that no fear lies within your heart; no worry constricts your pulse in that intimate moment! To look him in the eye as you curse his name, and then launch forward to receive the executioners writ.

Cinead MacAlpin.

P.S. lads, and lassies; I assure you all that this is but a plea, and no threat. For I but pass with light intention; through this fair land of ours; a place of noble thinkers, scholars and great drinkers.