Letter from the New Republic of Salmondland

For my two avid readers, I apologise, as I was so cold in sunny Pie Country that I have temporarily migrated North to Arctic Jockland. As a well seasoned International traveller, I was well equipped, so I thought, for my sojourn into the heathen neverlands of socialism's newest Republic of Silly Salmondland. Wrong.

Attired as I was in my favourite rugby supporters attire, this most pleasant journey was met with a delightfully charming Native who towered over even the ugly Wheel in St Georges now ruined monument square, strolling out of the train station, listening to Clem Tholet and me whistling the Blue Job to my new found paramour, when the blade from the skean dhub belonging to the manager of the local RBS sliced through my backbone and thrust deep into my Anglo-Saxon-Celtic heart. Perhaps I was unwise to wear Rhodesian colours so immediately after the announcement of Ranger’s demise? Yea! We die and learn.

That apart! Having escaped coldest West Houghton my joy was tempered as I was somewhat sad that I had to deplete the world's population of polar bears just so that I could be warm in the Wigan Maulers igloo. So what's a fur coat to an extinct animal? Much preferable that they should keep a despot as myself warm and deny the Earth its inheritance. If the beeb think it's chilly for the kids in Afghanistan, try putting your plastic in the meter in Pietown when the money's been spent on keeping Adu Qatada safe and warm!

How more comforting it was when the ambulance women carried me into the cannabis factory atop of mount Marilyn Munroe accompanied by the Presbyterian Padre singing a dirge or repeating Billy Connelly's forgotten script; I was so delirious I was beyond Ken. I was just happy to be warm, or was that the smoke from the thirty unemployable teenagers sat round the cauldron of illicit distilled Buckslashpee swine juice that was making my last moment so intolerable?

Needless to say, and with the help of Dog, I seem to be well on my way to some form of recovery. The surgeon has apologised for sewing my head on backwards but said nothing about the permanent haunched position he has genuflected me into, which becomes insufferable unless I kneel on a silk carpet weaved by a seven year old virgin boy and I face towards the Mecca whilst exposing my arse to all and sundry. Why I have to look at that dilapidated old dance hall seems irreligious to me.

Here, in the land of some of my ancestors, luckily I'm not related to Mel Gibson, I feel the wind of renewal and the breath of regeneration. Either that or the Belhaven has bypassed the Tussocks and hit me straight in my sclerosis liver. Not that it's worth 80shillings of any sick man’s money. Could be cured and fed to the starving, but as it comes from a pig like me then it would be refused by the desperate zealots with the starving infants. Now there's a quandary! And will the interfering shi'ites called our elected masters allow me the capacity to choose to have a 'wee dram' at a price an old fart can afford, or will some poor barstewards have to work an extra millennium just to keep my comatose shell in a cockroach infested Old people's Home? Not here in Jockland, the new land of the Free. Free Health, free wealth, free schools, free pensions, free housing and free old age care! Of course I'm talking absolute catshite as we'll end up borrowing off the Greeks and Portuguese and indebting our children for the next thirty generations. Just like English Labour has done to the illegal immigrants south of the border with their free NHS under it's PFI – Purchased For Idiots.

Oh, what a laugh? Ain't it just right, Mrs Patel? Note, I haven't said Nigerian once. :-)P