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."
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