Nasty and Rude



Here's a rather rude and nasty little comment piece by Jenny Hjul which appeared in The Telegraph the other day, Jenny being the partner/wife of the newspaper's Scottish editor, Alan Cochrane.

Now I like Alan, he's a 'hail and well met' kind of chap, good company and a great laugh, but I've no idea what his better half is on about because I know lots of people with different views on Scottish independence, yet they all seem able to debate the issues, passionately on occasion, while remaining on perfectly good terms.

So where all this nastiness comes from is a mystery to me although if you believed everything the 'No' campaign has to say, you'd come away thinking Scotland couldn't run a whelk stall never mind an international event like the Commonwealth Games.      

It's a referendum on whether Scotland should become an independent country for goodness sake - not a rerun of the American Civil War. 

What to do when Scottish Nationalists move in next door

By Jenny Hjul - The Telegraph

Photo: Getty

When our neighbours told us they were moving out for most of August to make way for an acting troupe we weren’t particularly surprised, or bothered. This is Edinburgh and "festival lets" are commonplace for those whose properties are close enough to the town centre to make them coveted by visiting artistes and impresarios.

We did it ourselves once, but managed only a week. To turn your home into a rentable prospect you have to remove every trace of your family, from bagging up and hiding the clothes to taking the framed photographs off the mantelpiece. It’s far too much effort for too little return and things can go wrong. We came back to find our "guests" – a Radio 1 DJ and his crew – still in residence and there were words. Later, we listened to his version of events on national radio, an episode our teenage daughters have still not forgotten, or forgiven.

Anyway, back to our neighbours. Their tenant is a famous actor appearing in the Fringe, they told us, and for a moment we were excited. Imagine the parties, the glamour, the gossip. Imagine the pressure. No more watering the plants in my dressing gown. No cursing at the kids when the windows are open.

Then they dropped the bombshell: his name. Oh no, not that, my husband and I said in horrible unison, anything but that. But the deal is done and there is no escape. For the next month we will be living next door to a Scottish Nationalist. It gets worse.

His show is about Scottish independence; he is on a mission to convert the masses. He is a vocal supporter of the other side; he is the enemy.

In Scotland, with just seven weeks until the referendum, politics has become deeply personal. We might have friends who are nationalists but they aren’t speaking to us at the moment. There was a time in Edinburgh when political persuasion was rather like religious denomination, a talking point maybe but not all defining and not divisive.

We used to entertain politicians of every leaning, and I can recall election-night gatherings where SNP spin doctors perched on sofas with Tory MSPs and Labour stalwarts. The coming referendum has rendered such cross-party comaraderie inconceivable and it’s hard to see the day when things will return to normal.

The two camps have dug in for the final countdown and what has long been a bitter campaign has entered its last, nasty phase. Civility is reserved for the ‘don’t knows’. We don’t belong to that group, and nor do the new folk over the fence.

So how do we play it? Pretend we are impartial, peel off the Better Together stickers from the eldest’s bedroom window and take the Union flags out of the flower pots (I said this has got serious)?

Or do we go the other way, declare war, refuse to lend them a cup of sugar, put our rubbish in their bin, hang the Union Jack duvet on the washing line and keep it there for four weeks?

I can envisage the actor’s friends, for he surely has many, trooping in and out for soirees on the terrace (do Scottish Nationalists have soirees?). Famous faces and famous Yes sympathisers, herding together in Scotland’s capital to make their desperate assault on audiences before September 18, could headquarter in our street.

There will be politicians among them. Good lord! A horrible thought: there could be the politician himself. Never one to pass up an opportunity for promotion, the Nationalists’ leader would relish an invitation from his luvvie loyalists and may appear in person, just beyond the party wall.

As I sit at my computer I can already hear our regular neighbours taking their leave. By tonight, the actor will be installed and life in these parts may never be the same again. Wish us luck.

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