Start Of The Humbug Factor.

12/23/2006

Many will assume that silly Ex-minister Mal Chisholm MSP must have pressed the wrong button on his complicated voting consol, casting his vote against the Trident Trotskys and so ending his chequered political career. I have always held him in low esteem, particularly when he served as Health Minister in Scotland; however, he is perhaps the only Scottish Minister who also held similar rank at Westminster. One would like to think that he had come to a point when he could no longer tolerate the sycophantic socialism of Holyrood. I salute you, old boy, as the Trident system is about as “independent” of the U.S. as George W Bush. Even as an ex- RN officer, I firmly believe that the sooner we ditch Trident and its zillion-dollar commitment, to say nothing of U.S. beldam bedfellows, the better. Spend the budget on impoverished U.K. infrastructure and sort that, before even dreaming of anything else. 

One minister who should definitely be “Ex”, is Greenoakian, R Finnie MSP, his poor old father must be spinning in his grave to think that his sprog is selling all things Scottish down the line in Euro land solely to secure Finnie’s selfish, two-faced political power. I shall never for a momment consider a vote for the Liberals ever again, and I sincerely trust that fishermen use their increased time ashore to encourage voters out in force in May ’07 and sweep away the Liberals forever.

I sit at the desk surveying the first reasonable weather for months, although the days are a tad short, and the shortage of daylight seems inversely proportional to the pile of VAT returns, tax demands, SERRAD bumf, etc, that are threatening the few clear areas of my desk. However, even this is a pleasant relief from a house full of Christmas guests ranging in age from nine to ninety. It is all very jolly, however, thank God for the peace of the library and detailed consideration of the replacement of miles of fencing and the generation’s old water supply systems that have been destroyed in last week’s floods. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.