What a Cnut.

That's the kind of thing that people say to you when they find out that you're Scottish. And quite frankly it pisses me off. To a whole new level of pissedoffedness. Therefore I have decided that in order to address the whole "Scottish people are all ginger haired, are tight with money and drink too much." situation I'm proposing that Scotland makes the Dropkick Murphys version of Scotland the Brave as the official national anthem in order to scare the living piss out of anyone who even thinks about throwing around any of those stereotypes. The Dropkick Murphys version of Scotland the Brave is a mix of the old and the new and has the added bonus in that there are no words to learn, which is an advantage for the football fans who are usually too drunk to sing anyway. So, Ladies, Gentlemen and unknowns... I give you the Dropkick Murphys... Cadence To Arms/Scotland the Brave .

The reason I'm writing to you Lord is to ask a small request of you. I realise that you're a busy entity, what with the universe to run and all, but this really is something that needs your immediate attention. As I'm sure you know, I live in Scotland (Good job by the way it's a lovely place, the work you must have put into the Highlands was above and beyond...) and we as a nation are undergoing a crisis on a magnitude never known before in these here parts. The trouble is that it's way to hot. There's a heatwave going on just now and we as a race are ill equipped to deal with it. More than 35% of the population is ginger and the rest are fair haired, have pale skin and burn like sausages on an unattended barbecue if we are in the sun for more than 21 seconds a day. When I grew up in the 70's I only ever had one bath a week unless of course there was a family gathering going on, in which case we were scrubbed to within an inch of our lives so we didn't s...

When standing behind the bar at work, I'd say that the people who frequent the place are more often than not brainless idiots... It's been about three weeks since I started my new job and without fail whenever a new face (new to me anyway) comes in the most popular question is "What football team do you support?" [1] To me this suggests one of two things. Either A.) They are brain-dead. Or B.) They are mindless idiots who measure a man, not by his deeds or his actions, but by which colour the overpaid Prima Donnas kick an inflated pigs bladder around a field he supports wears. [2] Both of these things are not good. Not good in the extreme if you ask me. I mean what kind of retard judges a man based solely on the football team he supports? Yes, you got it, the kind that likes to drink heavily, watch football and beats the shit out his girlfriend on a regular basis. In other words, my customers. Seriously, what is the mindset of someone who will come to a judgement on...

That no matter how hard you wish and plead to the fairies, or kiss a lucky cloverleaf, or click your heels together and recite "There's no place like home... There's no place like home... There's no place like home..." or pray to the very Gods themselves... You cannot transport yourself through the sub ether (Or whatever the correct terminology is) and materialise on a beach in Mozambique. This was not an easy thing to accept at the time, as I was standing behind a bar trying not to scream in someones face "YOU'RE AS INTERESTING AS A SECOND HAND TEABAG! GET OUT MY SIGHT BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A PEN!" , so I focused my concentration and tried for somewhere closer to home... Specifically, Wales. Don't ask why my mind chose Wales, because I don't know. Of all the places I could have chosen that are closer to my house than Mozambique, which is six thousand and forty three miles away, at the time Wales seemed as good a place as any. D...