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Thursday, November 11, 2004

That it should come tae this?


Whit's become of yiz? A forty year struggle for yer ain devolved parliament, an' six years efter they huvnae even finished the building yet, but they've piled yer scanty millions intae the cerpets, a'right?

And noo it's come tae this: banning fags in public places. Banning smokes in public hooses - nae mair smokin' in the pub fur yoo, Geordie ma lad! As if the f*ckin' places wurnae bad enough wi'oot thur copper f*ckin' kettles hingin' off the wa's, an' a' thur happy-clappy barstaff wi' thur braces and badges like TGI f*ckin' Fridays, and thur stupit crappy conglomerated made-up names, like "Ye Oldde Pubbe" and "The Crate an' f*ckin' Barrel".

Whit'll it be like, sittin' in The Auld Inn or the Sarry Heid or The Barony, nursin' a hauf an' a half or a pint a Guinness wi nae f*ckin' smokes? Deid! That's what. A' the life'll be drained frae the place; a' the savor'll evapourate, an' soon enough yez'll a' be askin' the c*nt fur coffee, or a nice cuppie tea, an' mibbe a coupla they wee french fancies? But yez cannae enjoy them either, no wi'oot yer f*ckin' fags ye can't!

Kudos tae the polis, though, fur tellin' the f*ckers tae stuff it. No that that'll stop them frae hirin' some shower o' nippit-pussed wee teenies, wi' a badge and an armband and a holy crusade?

"For the good of the Health of the Nation" my hairy f*ckin' erse. Oors is not a healthy nation - never huz been, never should be. The only f*ckin' international competition we ever f*ckin' won wiz the Heart Attack League. And just think whit it's goin tae be like twinty years doon the road - a' they auld c*nts still no deid, still nae fags, crabbit as sin like yez widnae believe? M.i.s.e.r.a.b.l.e.

Think it'll stop there? Nae f*ckin' chance. First its yer fags, then its yer pies and yer chips and yer curries and yer blessed kebabs - ya fat b*stards - then it'll be yer f*ckin' motors an' ye'll huv tae take the f*ckin' stinkin' bus everywhere or ride a f*ckin' bike tae the shops. An a' yez'll dae is whine an' whine an' whine, just like the rest o' thum.

Well. Guid luck. No that it's any different here mind, no that it hisnae been that way since ah came here. But a rarely go tae bars here, no unless they have a patio or sumpthin' where ye can gan ootside furra smoke. An' it isnae pishing rain here, or freezin' f*ckin' cauld. It's do-able. Here. But no there. No in Embra in the middle o winter? Poor Caledonia, ma hert bleeds fur ye.


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