January to November 2017

With apologies to Walt Whitman

liberty submerged


O Country! my Country! the White House trick is done,

The GOP is right on track, the prize it sought is won,

The Don is in, beside him Flynn, the alt Right all excited,

The Russian meetings buried deep, the treason grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where in this land Democracy,

Is fallen, nearly dead.



My Country does not answer, its lips are pale and still,

Democracy feels not my arm, it has no pulse nor will,

The US founders day by day, its lifeblood nearly gone,

And on its neck the vampires feed, their treachery near done;

So tweet your tweets, proclaim your hate!

While we with mournful dread,

Observe the Land of Liberty,

Fallen cold and dead.


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Hate in Your Heart


Updated 23/10/17

I bought a new iPad recently, as my old one was showing signs of distress. I was thrilled to discover that my new toy came equipped with GarageBand, and that I could record stuff quite easily.

I’m gradually getting to grips with it, so production is still a bit rough around the edges, but it is such an intuitive app that I’ve recorded three songs in a week  (compared with my previous best of two in 40 years). They’re all Trump related: he must be the most odious Muse ever, but he’s a great source of material.

Here’s the latest, which is hot off the press today. Exciting times!

Gave Me Everything

Man came down from NYC,

Said he stood for you and me.

Blind to his hypocrisy,

We gave him everything.


Man sat up upon his hill

Dispensing all his bitter pills

And making all the people ill

Who gave him everything.


Man went to the Treasury

Demanded he should have the key

He said “I’ll have to charge a fee”,

While taking everything.


Man said everyone would win

He’d make the country great again,

Then watched as all the storms rolled in

Destroying everything.


Man he fans the flame of hate

He loves the disunited States

It means more billions for his mates

Who covet everything


Man spends time in Twitter fights

He gives away your human rights

You’d best be rich and best be white

If you want anything.


Man he waves his little hands

“Capitulate to my demands

Or find you don’t have any chance

Of being anything!


‘Cause when you listened to my lies

And bought them all, surprise, surprise,

You brought about your own demise,

You gave me everything!”


Here’s another:

Racist Fuckwit

PARENTAL ADVISORY: As you may be able to tell from the title this one has sweary bits from the beginning. Keep away from young ears…

While you are here, you might also enjoy this music video reflecting on Donald Trump’s current obsession with footballers and kneeling. By coincidence it includes the words “mentally” and “deranged”:

Son of a Bitch


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In Hannity

gravity“Good evening, America. Welcome at the top of the hour to “In Hannity”, our weekly Fox News look at the latest twisted lies by libtard supporters of Crooked Hillary. I’m Sean Hannity…”

“…and I’m Tucker Carlson…”

“…and together we’re Harlson…”

“Wait, Sean. I thought we agreed ‘Sucker’?”

“Harlson. The producers insisted.”


“Dunno, Tucker. They just didn’t like ‘Sucker’.”

“Maybe because it sounded like ‘Fucker’?”

“Casual liberal elite snowflake sweariness, Tucker: sickos like Oliver, they’re all going to Hell, I tell ya!”

“Roger that, Sean!” [They explode a fistbump]

“So, Tucker. What pile-of-horseshit DNC narrative are we dismantling tonight?”

“Interesting you should ask that, Sean. Tonight, we’re focusing on the bleeding-heart scientists.”

“Those sons of bitches!”

“Yes, Sean. Those sons of bitches who are holding America back from greatness with their intellectual dishonesty and their constant whining about the environment and so-called climate change. But tonight we can reveal that they have been wrong for years about GRAVITY!”

“If that’s true, Tucker, then WOW! Just WOW!”

“I know, Sean. In the studio tonight we have assembled a SUPER-INTELLIGENT panel who will be reacting to claims by none other than Alex Jones that gravity is a liberal left myth perpetuated by a metropolitan elite with a vested interest in keeping us all from being able to fly without mechanical aids.”

“That’s right, Tucker. We’ve got Seb Gorka, who, it turns out, isn’t just an expert on terrorism but was once also a degree-educated Anglo-Hungarian astronaut at the height of the British Empire’s space program.”

“You mean ‘nadir’, right, Sean?”

“I’m sorry, Tucker?”

“Nadir. It’s the scientific word for ‘height’, Sean.”

“I knew that, Tucker. I asked on behalf of our audience.”

“Roger THAT, Sean!” [They high five]

“We’ve also got Ann Coulter, who is here to tell us about her embarrassment at 31,000 feet. Which would never have happened if Obama had just told the truth about gravity.”

“No swear words, Sean! You’re referring to ‘the O-hole’, right?”

“You got that right, Tucker. A first class O-hole!”

“The only thing he graduated in. O-hology.”

“O-hology at the University of Bongo Bongo, Kenya, Tucker. I’ve seen the certificate.”

“Finally, because we’re all about the balance, we have a very special guest here tonight to put the wholly erroneous scientific perspective. A big Fox News welcome to Ken Ham, Professor of Creationism at Harvard and Yale. And the other one.”

“Yes, Sean. Let’s start with you, Ken. For years, so-called scientists have been telling us about gravity. Now it seems the whole theory is beginning to fall apart. What can you tell us, speaking as an expert?”

“Well, Tucker. I can tell you that until mankind invented the concept of gravity, things used to float in midair the way God intended. It was only when Adam saw an apple fall from a tree, under supernatural influence from Satan, that he put two and two together and made six. Ever since then, we humans have been literally GROUNDED by God as a punishment for our lack of faith.”

“So, Ken. If I can interrupt Tucker’s questions for a minute.  I have a quote here from an eminent scientist who says that gravity is ‘a consequence of the curvature of space-time’. You seem to be disagreeing.”

“Scientists get things wrong all the time, Sean.”

“They do indeed, Ken. They do indeed. Sebastian Gorka, what are your thoughts on that bombshell revelation by Ken?”

“I am not at all surprised, Sean. When I was in space I saw zero evidence that space-time was curved. Let me ask you this: if space-time were curved, how is it that we can draw straight lines?”

“Good point, Seb. What’s the President’s take on this startling new approach to gravity.”

“I think it’s clear that the President has thought that gravity is suspect all along. He is a highly successful billionaire construction magnate and you don’t get to be that without questioning basic science. I can reveal that he has been defying gravity for years in private, something that Obama was never able to do throughout his entire, despicable tenure.”

“Thanks, Seb. Good to have that on record. [Turns to camera] Join us after the break for some more pictures taken by our guest Ann Coulter, showing liberal elites celebrating gravity by enjoying her seat at 31,000 feet…”

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A Vision in a Dream. A Figment

Following the spat at yesterday’s White House press briefing, I can’t help feeling that this blog has turned out to be even more prescient than I feared.

Kind of Lime

My spirit guide, Bob, has been knocking urgently on my astral door ever since the inauguration. Seems Samuel Taylor Coleridge was on the Ethereal Blower with this report from the Other Side.

dsc00024Millions of people thronged the Capitol  last Friday. And a Christmas tree.

In Washington did Donald Trump

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

And Ralph, the White House dresser, ran

Through swatches to complete the plan

   Downtown in old DC.

With twice five miles of plate gold found,

The walls and rooms were gilded round;

And there were toilets bright with auric frills,

The toilet rolls were golden filigree;

And here were Donald’s photos, flattering stills

Staring down at whomsoever had a pee.


But oh! that cool reflecting pool which slanted

Across the green Mall beside the Lincoln shrine!

Trump hated it! The whole thing left him haunted

As e’er because his self-esteem was taunted

By great deeds of the past…

View original post 243 more words

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Presidential Kinks


We are the Donald Trump Appreciation Society
God bless made-up facts, in all their different varieties!
We are the Ku Klux Klan Preservation Society
God save David Duke, our guiding light of propriety.
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Promoting the fake news for me and for you,
What more can we do?
We are the Bowling Green Condemnation Affiliate
God save Kelly Anne from all the newsroom idiots.
We are the EPA Elimination Consortium
God save the pipeline deals and all those who were awarded them.
We are the Michael Flynn Russian Sanctions Cooperative
God save his private calls from snooping FBI operatives
We are the Kremlin-backed Election Hacking Artillery
God bless everyone who voted down Crooked Hillary.
We are the Fox News Redneck-loving majority
God help anyone who challenges Trump’s authority.
Preserving our borders from being abused
Deporting illegals for me and for you,
What more can we do?
God save America.

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Putting Donald To The Test

President Trump has, in his own words, accumulated lots of data and he has an astonishingly high IQ. I thought it only fair that we should be allowed to disseminate more widely the pearls of wisdom that no doubt shimmer in his every insight. His education was, self-admittedly, stellar, so I have taken the liberty of peeking at his answers to an exam on American History. 

exam-question(a) For a start I wasn’t president, which is a HUGE historical factor. If I had been president that graph would have looked bigly different because we would have had TOUGHER VETTING and a BIG WALL. It would have been the biggest wall ever with all the best bricks and the people would have thanked me for making them safe. I would have had the best ratings. The best! They’d have built statues of me in all the best cities too. Sorry if that makes the rest of you losers feel insecure, but it’s true.

(b) Lots of illegals poured in from “places” like Mexico and started taking jobs from decent Americans. Many of these illegals were bad dudes. BAD!

(c) Some of the Mexican bad dudes had children who were also bad dudes but as time went by some of the bad dudes wormed their way into the courts and became so-called judges who started making very bad calls on things they had no business poking their illegal noses in. This cost decent American patriots as much as $25 million in certain cases if you are to believe the failing New York Times, which you shouldn’t because it is staffed by liars and crooked pollsters. Sad!


(a) Because of tree-hugging snowflakes like John Muir, staff  in National Parks think it’s okay to tweet lies about so-called climate change and how it’s affecting the “poor little fishies” when they should be out counting my inauguration attendance more accurately.

(b) More wriggle room, right? Pipelines and so on.

(c) Oil fields. Lots of oil fields. We didn’t have fracking then, right? Now if I had been president between 1890 and 1945 we’d have had more fracking as well as more oil fields because some of my best friends are oil barons and frackers. Right frackers, not leftie liberal crybabies who consistently misrepresent me in the failing media. Roosevelt would have been with me on that one, trust me. He would have loved Donald J. Trump.


(a) “Former” president John Adams. Says it all. The guy was a loser. And Rush is a Canadian band so they have NOTHING to say about any American war.

(b) Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman getting to be a doctor. That was revolutionary. Would have happened sooner if I had been president. Adams held her back. Loser!

(c) You spelled “singer” wrong. Rush was a singer of the Declaration of Independence. Probably their worst track. Terrible drumming. See my earlier answer, we have NOTHING to learn from Canadians. I’m tired now. Can Steve do the rest of the questions?

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Nigel Molesworth Reports

 Further apologies to Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle


Since mi last misive there hav been SINISTER developments at st custards.

Last Monday our weedy Head had a brakedown during an ofsted inspektion and started throwing flowerpots at fotherington-tomas from his window on the 2nd floor. We noble lads were cheering wildly and the skool dog was barking furiosly and fotherington-tomas was hopping around wailing like a girlie until a begonier catch him on the cranium and he trip over the skool dog, PRANG, horse de combat as they sa. The poor lad had to be taken away by ambulence (the word on the skool grapevine is he can resume skipping agane once doctors have removed the bits of terrercotter from his brane. Chiz chiz). Meanwile the Head took refuge in the skool gym gibering like mi bro molesworth 2 after Peason put a sackful of worms in his satchel. When the police eventually found him he was curled up naked in a feetle ball sucking his thumb and asking for nanny. The Head that is, not mi bro after the worms. Thuough it is only a matter of time before mi bro follow in the Heads footsteps in mi opinion.

To be clear, that was not the SINISTER development. O no! As any fule kno, st custards hav lost more Headmasters than gillibrand hav had xtra skool dinners after winning a new trophy for for scoring goals at football. At least two others Heads that i kno of were taken away naked and dribling from the skool gym. It is a fact that Heads everywhere hav been losing marbles at a rate of nots ever since the kane was banned and they can no longer beat us:

PSCHYITRYST: So, [put anonymous Heads name here], how hav you been feeling?

HEAD: Sad.

PSCHYITRYST: Sad? Tell me more, mi dear fellow…

HEAD:  Sad. Miserible. Depressed. Downcast. Cressfallen. Mornful…

PSCHYITRYST: i see you were an Eng. Lang. skolar…

HEAD: Why yes! How did you kno?

PSCHYITRYST: Just a wild guess. So, my dear old chap, what hav happen to make you so sad, miserible, depressed, downcast, cressfallen and mornful?

HEAD: [beginning to quiver like jelly] Its just…[he sobs]

PSCHYITRYST: Yes, yes! Go on! Let it all out, you pore sap!

HEAD: i cant beat the boys! Ever since they banned the kane, i cant spank the evil little bliters! [He lets out a huge sigh of releif] Oh mi god how good it feel to sa it! If only i didnt hav to be so nice to them. So encouraging. i miss the sound of wilow on butock! i miss the anguished wails! The entreating plees! Wood that i could just hav back those halsion days! [GRAMMER]

PSCHYITRYST: Mi work here is done.

Anyway, deer reeder, what usually happen after a Head is carted away to the lunatick bin is a period of wild rejoycing among the boys and a marked increase in the use of BEER and CIGGIES among the Masters. For a while even the deadly skool sossages seem to taste a little less like something Heston Bloomingdale mite hav thrown up. The skool dog waits in vane to be huzzed one which make him even grumpier than ushual. All in all it is a good time to wear criket pads on your legs.

Here is the SINISTER bit. No sooner had the last incrimanating vestige of begonier leaf been swept away by the skool groundsman than grabber got a misterious phone call from his pater who was in banking but is now something big in the ministry of edukation. Aparently because of breaxit the govt is trying to suck up to the new president of the United States, Donald Trump (i kno, i promise i didn’t make that up!), who is a swanky American tycoon and orange, not to mention a bit of a lunatick with a wierd hairdo who hav already upset the queen and everybode after only a few days of frothing at the mouth, grabbing privite parts and ordering people about like he was Atila the Hun or something.

Grabber senior told grabber on the qt that we were being sent some American teaching staff pronto because the pm agreed they could test a new edukation system here at st custards. In return the president has said we can hav all the pumpkins we can eat and the proper instruktions for the nuclear misiles they sold us thirty yeres ago.

All the Masters are in a rite bate because noone will explane to them what it all means. They are in the dark. Which to be fare is pretty much buisness as ushual as far as i can see. The only one who seems to be happy about the whole affare is the Religious Ed Master, who danced around the playground and sa “at last, now they will all hav to take me seriosly” before sending out for crates of textbooks about Noahs Ark and tearing down all the dinosore posters in the Science Block. He hav always been a bit odd. Peason once caught him in the skool libary blacking out all the E words in a biology primer.

Anyway, gentel reeder, that is all for now. As you can see st custard’s is still the uter shambles it hav always been, and now with added Americans. i will let you kno how it goes.

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Mr Smith Goes To LALALAND


Yesterday I went with my wife to watch LALALAND.

I suspect my blog is not eagerly sought out by Trump-leaning folk, but any readers of that mindset will already be thinking “There’s another sad, liberal snowflake in thrall to his wife”. I should, therefore, make clear the decision was mine. If that merely confirms me as a sad, liberal snowflake, then so be it. People who figure things that way are so past reasonable debate that the effort is hardly worth the candle.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film, by the way, but this is not intended as a review. While watching, I couldn’t help but reflect on what is happening in America right now. If you were seeking a metaphor for the division between conservative and liberal America, Hollywood appears to lie along the fault line. As implied above, I think it a fair assumption that the core Trump supporter would not be a natural moth to LALALAND’s flame. Let’s face it, the film is in no small measure a paean to Hollywood, the creative process and, by extension, creative types. When Emma Stone sings about The Fools Who Dream, it could almost be a direct rebuttal to those, such as Trump and Piers Morgan, who consider actors as okay provided they don’t get above themselves and begin to speak out in matters political.  It’s as if, in some way, an actor is expected to sign a waiver agreeing to leave his or her conscience at the door. Now, you wouldn’t expect Piers Morgan to tell members of his audience “you’re a plumber, so you have no right to express your opinion”. Why, then, the special pleading for actors?

The answer is clear. Actors have, in abundance, what Trump and his acolytes fear most: an ability to connect, to communicate and to inspire; to tell a story that makes an entire audience wake up from an emotional and intellectual torpor; to point out, on some of the biggest stages in the world, that the emperor, indeed, has no clothes.

Trump is not going to win over more supporters by any of the actions he has taken thus far. His fan base in the US comprises those who were already turned on by those sorts of thing, and those who were not but saw no better alternative in Hillary Clinton.  As he is understandably loath to acknowledge, his ratings are already demonstrably poor, so, no matter how shrill the denials, it’s probable that he will only haemorrhage support from here.

Trump does not have intellectual rigour, he has intellectual rigor mortis. He is both educationally and morally moribund. To paraphrase Franklin, he died at 25 in both respects but has yet to be buried. He knows, and fears, that he lives with an ever-present Sword of Damocles: being irrefutably found out. Why else withhold his tax returns? Why else move to prevent his audit? He knows, and fears, that anything that keeps shining an unwelcome light on these matters can harm him immeasurably.

That is Hollywood and the entire entertainment industry’s power. Its own brand of populism scares him to death.

And if he thinks he is bigger than both, then he truly is living in la la land.

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Launch Code of the Woosters

With apologies to the great P.G. Wodehouse.


“I say, Jeeves! What do you make of this Trump fellow?”

For perhaps a millisecond, the great man paused in the act of pouring my constitutional snifter. A less keen eye might have missed it, but I am hewn from more perceptive rock. Jeeves is renowned from Bombay to Beccles as an imperturbable cove, so this fleeting pause was tantamount to him rolling around on the floor and caterwauling like one of those tiny ankle biters one sees littering the park on Saturdays.

He placed the fruits of his labours at my right hand.

“I’m not sure it’s my place to say, sir,” he prevaricated. “He is the new President, after all.”

“Come now, Jeeves!” I chided, after an appreciative sip at my w and s. “You have your views. I daresay he’s the talk of the Junior Ganymede.”

“As you know, sir, to disseminate what the club’s gentlemen have to say about their gentlemen is expressly forbidden.”

“Yes, yes, Jeeves!” I replied testily. “But I am hard pressed to believe that this chap would recognise a gentleman, even were one to fall on him from atop the Chrysler Building. Leave alone have a gentleman’s gentleman in his employ. He is a classic example of the American business tycoon. You know the type: two hundred decibels in both speech and trouser.”

“Very amusing, sir. And you are correct. If he does, indeed, have a gentleman, the club has never heard of him.”

“Quite so, Jeeves. We Woosters have a nose for that sort of detail. Instilled in us by aunts through the generations, no doubt. But you, Jeeves, are an acute observer of the human condition. You’re a thinker, like me. What do you make of him? Warts and all.”

“There is something about him which is extremely familiar, sir.  We have run across his like on many an occasion. Not to mention hidden from him during several escapades.”

The Woosters are of stern stock. None sterner. Years of public schooling and the aforementioned aunts have seen to that. But as Jeeves spoke I am not ashamed to say that a platoon of chills performed a route march from my coccyx to my scapulae, before falling out in the general area of the nape of my neck. Every hair on my body stood to attention and saluted.

“Spode!” I gasped, expelling the dread word in much the same way as a Satanist might read aloud from the Grand Grimoire.

“Indeed, sir.”

Roderick Spode, the infamous Seventh Earl of Sidcup, is an odious oik and as close to a nemesis as yours truly has ever had, assuming you exclude various fiancées and Aunt Agatha. He is of the goose-stepping dictator persuasion and has frequently espoused the view that he would as soon squash me underfoot, like the worthless worm I am, as offer me tea and biscuits. His general vocabulary is one in which you suspect the words “vile” and “jelly” are never far from the head of the queue. One time leader of the notorious Black Shorts, he is not a man you would want to indulge with any form of power. If placed in charge of an entire country I have little doubt its populace would never again eat imported root vegetables, nor pass through any form of checkpoint with an unmeasured kneecap.  I mean to say, the blighter wears shorts!

“You are saying this Trump is an American Spode? By jingo, Jeeves, this is the very opposite of that Doctor Pancho fellow in that rum book by that French chappie!”

A frown breezed briskly across the mighty Jeeves brow. I knew his impressive brain was whirring and clicking just below.

“Doctor Pangloss, sir,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “From Candide, by Voltaire. ‘Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds’.

“That’s the fellow, Jeeves! Except the opposite. This is for the worst in the worst of all possible worlds!”

“Alas, so it would seem, sir.”

“Is there nothing we can do, Jeeves? Would it be too much to hope that this Trump character has an Achilles’ Heel? Perhaps a sideline in lingerie? A ‘Eulalie’ to which he might be susceptible?”

“I have every certainty that there is, sir. One can only hope that it is discovered sooner, rather than later. The Americans have a Central Intelligence Agency, as implausible as that may sound. I believe they are working on it.”

“Well more power to their elbow, Jeeves! Let us agree to ponder upon it ourselves. Who knows, on the way to my club I might come up with some form of weapon to use against this blister!”

The Drones, sir?”

I drained the last of the single malt.

“Indeed, Jeeves! Fetch me another bracer, if you will! There’s a definite chill in the air.”

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Should Auld Acquaintance…

This blog has been recycled from a previous blog. Recycling is good for the environment. Fact.


It’s Burns Night and later, after a few snifters, those of a more Scottish persuasion will no doubt be singing Auld Lang Syne. But what on Earth does it all mean? Fear not, my faithful follower! I studied Burns at school and, as my gift to you, I am happy to bring you the inside dope on what was going on amid that impenetrable thicket of Scots. You’re welcome.


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?

Should we forget our old friends and not remember them?

[Note how Burns uses this tautological device to drive home his point about forgetting things. Like the thing he just said.]

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Should we forget our old friends and Old Lang Syne!

[Old Lang Syne was a teacher of mathematics at Dalrymple Parish School where Burns first learned some of the things he later forgot. At that time, of course, Old Lang Syne was Young Lang Syne, second son of the headmaster, the original Old Lang Syne. To this day the debate rages furiously among scholars as to which of the Old Lang Synes is referenced in this poem. Some have even posited that Burns was referring to both. A sort of co-Syne.]


For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

My best drinking bud, let us drink a cup of something alcoholic to the memory of Old Lang Syne.

[A cup of kindness is generally held to be a corruption of “a cup of Kidney’s”. Kidney’s Old Peculiar Dark Ale was a perennial favourite at the Tam O’Shanter Inn, Alloway, where Burns spent many a long day between poems.]

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For certain you’ll drink several pints of Kidney’s Old Peculiar, and so will I, to the point that we will toast Old Lang Syne over and over again with little memory of having done so already.

[The device of repetition is deployed by Burns throughout the poem, capturing the essential tediousness of a conversation between two drunkards.]


We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;

Basically we’re both at that stage of inebriation where we’ve totally pissed our pants but don’t care because we’ve now moved on to the optics.

[Gowan’s Fine Scotch Single Malt Whisky was another staple at the Tam O’Shanter. After a particularly heavy session on it, Burns was once moved to write an ode to a louse.]

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

But we’ve come a long way since Old Lang Syne. Which reminds me, we must drink a toast to him.


We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;

We’ve been piddled in the pub all day

[The Burn was a tavern notable for being frequented by poets of all persuasions. After heavy drinking sessions a favourite line among locals was: “Aye! Burns is burned in The Burn again the noo!”]

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

And it feels like we’ve drunk an ocean of ale

Sin’ auld lang syne.

Jings! We really should drink a toast to Old Lang Syne, before we forget.


And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.

Give me your hand, my best drinking buddy, I’ve just realised that after nineteen pints of Kidney’s and a couple of bottles of Gowan’s I am feeling such friendship for you that I might very well let you stroke my manhood. After all, it’s what Old Lang Syne would have wanted. Here’s to him!


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