A Coke and a Scowl.

 I bought a Coke the other day.

 No need to congratulate me.

 I've done it several times before, if I'm honest, and can only apologise for not informing you at the time. These days, however, buying a Coke has become its own special hell.

 It all started when the powers that be at Coca Cola decided to put names on every bottle at random. Personally, I don't need to search through a fridge to find the one bottle with my name on it - I'm not five. At the same time, my refusal to play along with their pointless exercise in narcissism means I'm frequently stuck walking around with the first bottle I came to, which will invariably identify me as Annabelle or Tiffany or something equally butch.

 Not that narcissism was the driving force behind the campaign. The original slogan was "share a coke with...", so that buyers could see a coke with someone else's name on it and buy it for them. Possibly as a wedding or birthday present, or else as a startlingly inconsiderate gift for the diabetic in your life.

 Either way, our increasingly flabby populace quickly decided "fuck that noise", as sharing is for pussies. We wanted our own names on our bottles - three hundred and thiry milliliter, red capped, non-biodegradable monuments to ourselves to cherish for all eternity, or at least take a Facebook profile shot with.

 What's more depressing is how well this all worked. People, by and large, didn't share my indifference to the labels on Coke bottles. They were elated to see their own names written down somewhere on a shitty drink, as if by magic. The campaign was first extended due to its success and now features brand new ads in which a fictional dog is trying to find a Coke with his name on it, in flagrant disregard of the fact that dogs a) can't fucking read and b) REALLY shouldn't be given Coke in the first place.

 The viewing public, meanwhile, have rallied behind this Frankenstein-like cross between rampant commercialism and The Littlest Hobo without ever once seeming to notice (or object to) the fact that Coke is now basically saying "If you care about having your name on your coke bottle, you're as stupid as an animal that's often surprised by its own farts."

 This is the reason - the exact, concrete, tangible reason - that big companies continue to treat people like shit and ignore our protests.

 Because they can.

 Next time someone complains that big business thinks we're all idiots, point to the nearest dullard, proudly clutching a "personalised" Coke bottle, and explain that companies treat us like idiots because we act like fucking idiots. We get legitimately excited, as a society, about someone stamping a facsimilie of our name on the disposable wrapper of a sugary drink and then wonder why the rich and powerful don't treat us with respect.

 Because we're idiots, babe. It's a wonder we can ever feed ourselves.

Scottish Independence - One Man's Opinion.

 I don't live in Scotland. Never have. It's probably indicative of the sort of arrogance that the Scots accuse us of that I think as an Englishman I even get to have an opinion on Scottish independence.

 Still, in case anyone north of the border is on the fence about whether to vote yes or no in the upcoming referendum, and decides that the best person to listen to is a half-cut Bristolian barman, here are my thoughts.

 In general, I'm against Scottish independence. Not because of any English sense of possession, but more for nostalgic reasons. Scotland is a bit like a relative I don't see much of; sure, we never talk and seldom visit, but if they fell off a cliff I'd be a little sad about it.

 Some people have told me that there are also sound financial and economic reasons for the union to stay intact, but if you want sense and solid economic advice I'd suggest you're on the wrong blog.

 Despite my reluctance to see Scotland go, there is one reason I'd be quite happy with a "yes" result for Scots independence.

 That reason is Sean Connery's house.

 For years, now, Connery has banged on about Scotland and being Scottish and just how incredibly Scottish he is, and how much he loves the nation of his birth, and he's done it all from the comfort of his palatial estate in the tropics, where weather is sunny and pub fights are few. Or maybe they're plentiful, I've never been, but you have to imagine a pub fight in the Bahamas at least takes place to a lilting reggae beat.

 Connery even has a tattoo that reads "Scotland Forever," although I dare say it has faded some with age and the excellent tan he must have by now. Still, he maintains vociferously in favour of Scottish independence, and has a tailor made get-out clause if anyone accuses him of geographical hypocrisy - he will, he claims, never live in Scotland again until it is its own country.

 Well, I, for one, would like to see the look on the smug bastard's face if Scotland goes independent. I'd like to see the horrified, sinking realisation that he's painted himself into a corner and actually lived long enough to see Scottish devolution. I want to see the forced, rictus grin - really just an exposure of gritted teeth - as he picks up his bags at Edinburgh international and trudges out to meet the press in the pissing, grey drizzle, a floral shirt hanging limply around him as he stares down the barrel of his own hubris, faced with the dreary, windswept and steel-drum deficient prospect of living out the last of his years with his money where his mouth once was.

 In Scotland.

"Bollocks."