A romantic impulse commands me to cheer the Scot "Yes" forces, and I dream of Highland independence -- at long last -- from the English usurpers.
It is not only my image of a hundred thousand kilted stalwarts flashing their Claymores at Hadrian's Wall, chorusing out the newest Presbyterian hymn. (Still unwritten but to be titled Thus Far and no Further Ye English Bawjaw Dobber.)
It could be the beginning of world-wide ascent of the Celts. Ireland would welcome the Caledonia clans as brother and sisters. Together they open their arms to the Welsh. Together they ally their stout hearts to free all Ulster still enslaved under Cross St. George. The sons of The Wild Geese would return to ancestral homes. Likewise the rest of the Celtic diaspora excepting only those inferiors any race produces. (I am thinking here of such things as the Massachusetts Kennedys. )
On close examination, however, my fantasy of tomorrow's vote as the harbinger of Celtic world rule crumbles.
You know why those gobshite yessers north of the big firths are pissed and want to run away? It is because London is not liberal enough for them. Their campaign slogan could just as well be a resounding "MORE DOLE." No such group, no matter how noble its ancestry, should be entrusted with operating a nation or other adult responsibility.