The Second Scottish Independence Referendum

Norman Harris gives us his thoughts on the Scottish Independence Referendum

The second Scottish Independence Referendum is now at the top of the agenda of the SNP. Just like the Tories with a 2020 focus on Brexit, the SNP has the almost single focus of Independence. Yet the party is currently in turmoil.

The impacts of Brexit on the Union are now beginning. Scotland leads in the demands for independence (they voted against Brexit). Border complications in Northern Ireland could result in a united Ireland and Wales has a Nationalist party.

Gordon Brown spoke on 25 Jan to news outlets on why the public has lost trust in how the UK is run and he outlined what should be done, basically more power to regional and national assemblies. We can have too many politicians per capita!

The Economist on page 19 of their 30 Jan issue indicated many of the constitutional problems that need to overcome to achieve independence but did not discuss what I outline below.

SNP has 61 out of 129 seats in the Edinburgh Parliament, they only need 4 more for an absolute majority. A pity Labour handicapped themselves by voting for Boris’s EU Deal. Labour should have abstained on the final EU vote, that action would not have meant a disastrous NO DEAL and the vote should have been left as an entirely Tory deal. By abstaining may have helped Labour in the Scottish elections, nearer to achieving second place in the Scottish Parliament.

We can be certain that there will be as many lies in the Scottish Independence Referendum debate and there were in the Brexit debate.

Scotland gets more per head out of the UK tax purse than any other region. They will have to make this up from their own taxes for their unique and expensive policies on elderly care and free higher education. With Independence, Scotland would have to decide on a currency and a taxation policy to take over all functions of that remain with the UK government.

Defence locations in Scotland are seen as a problem and will need to be repatriated to the remaining UK. Is that a huge problem? Barrow in Furness make the submarines and I think The Shetlands (no fan of Edinburgh) may accept the revenue from a RAF air defence and surveillance station. There will of course be a capital cost to the UK, but also a revenue loss to Scotland.

When the Scots call for a second Referendum, Boris should not reject it. Instead, if it is possible that even he has learned from Brexit, he should insist that the margin for leave should be stated, say at least 60% in favour with a 60% turnout and that there can no repeat of the exercise for at least 15 years.

The Scots legitimate desire to rejoin the EU may well be rejected by the EU because of the border with England. Arguably a more difficult border than in Ireland., where there is a chance that it will disappear in time.

If the Scottish people know the facts and still want to separate from the rest of the UK, then let them get on with it. I wish them well. But they should note the squabbles within the SNP their governing party.

As a footnote, Gavin Esler, broadcaster, and author in his book “How Britain Ends” published by Head of Zeus postulates that even now it is too late to save the Union.

The life of Di

A monthly column by Di Wade, the author of ‘A Year In Verse’

INTERESTING SUMMER SO FAR...

It was apparently baking at Wembley for our 1-nil defeat of Croatia, (which, ever the pessimist, I’d expected to be a 6-nil defeat BY them), and warm enough even in bracing Blackpool to allow me to sit out and listen to a scintillating French Open final. Barely two weeks later however, you could almost hear the amusement in Clare Balding’s voice as she announced there was no play at Eastbourne owing to its piddling down - or words to that effect anyway. Meanwhile, up here, it was clear it was going to be a case of a Sainsbury’s paella and scrabble at home by way of my dad’s birthday on the morrow – I said as much to a passing yeti. The morrow however quickly showed itself to be the kind of summer’s day Shakespeare might’ve been furiously scribbling sonnets about. Was gobsmacked, as the bard himself probably wouldn’t have put it. Thus after tramping various green and pleasant ways, admiring darling buds of all sorts everywhere, we reverted to Plan A, and went to the Red Lion for lunch, where one could sit out. Perfect, or it would have been but for the constant need to fend off seagulls once the actual grub arrived: I’d barely picked up my cutlery when one apparently swooped down, grabbed one end of my fish, (which was no minnow), and but for my dad’s quick reactions, would’ve made off with the lot. Meanwhile, its mates seemed scarcely less interested in my dad’s gammon, or my mum’s chicken tikka masala. Veritable eye-opener. I’d heard that one’s dinner might be under threat were one to stroll along the prom in Devon or Cornwall with it, but never of such dangers pertaining to the outside of hallowed northern hostelries, and I think I’d rather hoped our seagulls would have a bit more class and restraint. Clearly not, though at least this bunch departed empty-handed – shortly before we ourselves departed - to watch Heather Watson not winning at Eastbourne, despite frequently establishing leads from which it seemed she couldn’t possibly lose. Tad frustrating, though as my mum pointed out, you had to watch to know, and the subsequent walk back to my place was a veritable joy, being amid an evening which warmed one through and through, gladdened the heart, and bathed gardens in a golden fire. This was all the more remarkable as the rest of the week was more like bleak midwinter, and on so-called Midsummer’s Day itself, I’d strongly to resist the urge to put the heat back on.

It’s since been as mixed as the doubles we’ve been so surprisingly good at in recent times. Heading for our first dental appointment in over a year, (oh the joys denied us during lockdown), the three of us found ourselves in town half an hour earlier than necessary, so parked ourselves on a bench outside Sainsbury’s and put the world to rights as to the previous day’s Wimbledon action. Thoroughly pleasant interlude actually – and who knew that anything to do with a dentist could be pleasant? Only thing was, a previously overcast day turned suddenly brightly sunny, and none of us had brought sunhats – except you don’t do you, not when your only plan was to submit to some poor bloke peering into your cakehole?

By contrast, walking up at Rossall the other day, my dad and I rudely had the equivalent of a swimming pool dropped on us. My dad had just been indicating some points of interest, (a flat-calm sea, a couple of canoeists, a whole bunch of fishermen, and a dirty black cloud, which might well let rip at some point), when the first heavy drops fell, as though directly to confirm the veracity of his last statement. We duly headed straight back to the car, only the sudden rainfall simply got heavier and heavier, as though determined both to prove how hard it could do it, and that we should be soaked through, however much we might make like Usain Bolt. The mere minute it took me to fling myself into the front passenger seat on our finally reaching the car seemed more than sufficient to flood the entire vehicle, by which point I was all out of curses regarding such a downpour happening the one time I’d not deemed it necessary to take a waterproof with me.

The only plus was that we might have been still further from the car but for stopping on the way out to rescue a baby swallow, (swallowlet, swallowling?), which my dad spotted stranded in the gutter. He’d picked it up and transferred it to safety, though not before it’d accidentally fluttered down onto my arm, and utterly enchanted, it’d been all I could do not to try and take it home.

Denise Mullen is a journalist, writer and entrepreneur.

His Body is a Temple: Mine’s More of a Wine Bar

By Denise Mullen

So after the fourth lecture about how ‘we aren’t drinking through the week,’ and ‘we need to cut down what we eat,’ and ‘I’ve got to get into training for The Big One,’ before his epic (honestly, a true use of the word, Orcs, Sword of Aragon and everything) climb, off he went to the Lake District to train. He was training for his assault on of The Trampoline of the Merge (or something that sounds a bit like that). I’ve tried Googling it but fail even though he’s mentioned it a million times. It just won’t stick (because I don’t listen). So I can’t be pinpoint accurate here for detail-sticklers. From what I can gather, this trip would be a bit like practicing your scales on a recorder before conducting the New York Philharmonic to televised millions. It’s some nut-crunchingly terrifying mountainous range somewhere. He’s pointed at it on maps. I can confirm, it is really pointy. His body was a temple, he told me, and I had to support him through the training regimen. I saw this as becoming some sort of dusty temple antiroom where they kept the musty-smelling hymn books, rugs smelling of cat pee, mothballs and mice. I committed. Although that changed. So off he went. Being a good-ish wife, I zipped ‘scene of crime’ tape around the fridge and vowed to support him in spirit as I worked on the PC fuelled only with granola, peanuts (ok there’s a bit of oil in those, but it’s ‘good’ oil) and Diet Coke. Until, that is, I got the call. At 9.30pm. I remember it like it was yesterday. He said: ‘Helloooo, sho, howssssh you und shhh pushhhy catsh.’ In the background could be heard clinking and beery laughs. Also, Glen Campbell Wichita Linesman and, I think, two border collies having an altercation. Mobile phone clamped betwixt ear and shoulder, I edged along a knife edge precipice toward the fridge (avoiding cat bowls and ironing board) to fling open the door to a recentlyforbidden paradise and snatch a bottle of Sauv Blanc. ‘You’re squiffy.’ I observed, slitty-eyed and grim-lipped as I unscrewed the top with one hand. Since his ‘training’ began we’ve been low carb, zero fat, zero alcohol and zero tolerance of anything the other one says.

‘I reshhhcued some bloke I found on a mountain ….

Hah Hah … shooo we had to cum to the phub. I’ve had five pints and a glaassssh of red wine.’

He is triumphant. High on this life-saving intervention which changed the course of events for a geography lecturer who had been mildly bamboozled in a light mist on a hill near Kendal.

My husband. Johnny-the-mongoose-France. Alcohol tolerance of a fruit-fly. He’s in hard-core training for a trip to The Trambone of the Meringue (what IS it called) in Sweden (or somewhere hillier, possibly beginning with ‘S’) and is still chunnering as I reach down a large glass from the ‘glasses - fancy’ cupboard and pour. Yep, no holding back at my end. We journeyed toward our telephone goodbyes with protestations of love at his end and rustling at mine. I was bent double and scrabbling inside a lower cupboard in the hopes of an overlooked family bag of full-carbs, full-fat, high-salt cheese balls (with additives). At this stage I was happy to forgive a challenging ‘sell-by’ too. By the way, he did do that big climb – apparently not in Sweden – nearer Toblerone County I think. Traverse of la Merge, Mango, Meringo. Nope, still not right. Sounds like that though. Anyway the pictures of the vertiginous drops (from his big climbing trip, not from my wine glass) made my palms sweat. Not bad for a man whose training mainly centred on getting pie-eyed in a pub in the Lake District with a stray bloke encased in squelching corduroy furrows. I can only assume that extreme mist-wicking of said geography trousers contributed to his lagging behind the group. Really, Spongebob. Call yourself a geography teacher…

Snow Angels Anyone?

By Denise Mullen

Our lovely mate Dev is a larger-than-life character. A devoted wildlifelover (birds of prey are a particular favourite) he is a former tank commander who, these days, has a tree-felling business. He could also be mistaken for pretty much any Disney villain/henchman. He’s about 6ft 4ins and built like a barn door. Black goatee, shaven head, beer keg in front of the six pack and a penchant for hi-vis gilets teamed shorts and crocs. An amiable chap, but, whatever he’s wearing, no one’s going to cross him. Dev very kindly supplies us with logs and we built a little depot for him on the farm. The structure soon took on another life altogether however. It’s now kitted out with a wood burner, table, squishy bench seating, BBQ and lighting. So, of course, it was renamed ‘Devos’ and our homefrom-home Greek taverna was born, complete with regular resident Greek Disney villain. It is all very convivial. His leadership skills have been military honed. For a while, after hitting ‘civvie street’ as a young man fresh out of the army, he took a job at a local biscuit factory. Without a doubt, one of the attractions was the female-dominated workforce. Soon he’d carved a niche for himself and had even started a fell-walking group. The group, much to Dev’s disappointment, was all-men, but he threw himself into the spirit of the thing and arranged a Lake District adventure. He and four other biscuit blokes took to the fells on a wintery day that stretched into early evening when a blizzard blew in. Soon all visibility had gone and the guys reached a point where they took the decision to stop trudging through the thickening – and now drifting – snow, and take stock of their options. Dev decided they’d press on a little further, despite not being exactly sure where they were. Then he took another one and announced to the increasingly nervous lads that their only option now would be to dig in and create a snow shelter. Bearing in mind these were city lads. The nearest thing to a hill they had come across previously had been encountered while mistakenly clicking onto Countryfile whilst flipping the TV remote. Cold and desperate, in a world that offered no clue where the next McDonalds would be coming from, one of the lads wandered off a bit into a deep drift. Dev called him back, warning him not to stray and ticking off the dangers of frostbite, exposure, getting separated from the group etc. The lad turned and shouted. ‘I think we’re already dead Dev.’ ‘What do you mean?’ shouted Dev. ‘I can hear angels singing,’ shouted his bewildered companion. Dev trudged over to grab his stray biscuit boy, then strained his ears. He could hear it too. ‘Stay here,’ he warned the lads and pushed his 6ft 4inch frame through another drift. Cresting the banked snow, he found himself in the car park of The Cat and Fiddle pub where there was a bit of a beery sing song going on. Ten minutes later the lads were tucking into pie, chips, mushy peas and a couple of pints. The moral of this story? To be honest, there isn’t one. I just love it when the country-lore, army-trained hero is trumped by an 18-year old biscuit factory worker who’s never been further than Walton, lives with his mum – and believes in angels.