Wings Over Scotland

We’re getting there, folks.

Keep pushing.

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Despite everything, we almost allowed ourselves just the very tiniest little micro-flicker of optimism when we read Tommy Sheppard’s latest in The National.

Because that much is certainly true, and it’s uncommonly candid to have anyone in the SNP admit it. So what’s the answer?

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Not for us, admittedly.

(Kelly’s article is here. Link to Grok’s answer here. The ChatGPT analysis that triggered the article can be read in this tweet thread. A verifiable analysis by Grok of the debate, based on a neutral question, can be read here.)

So this is where the SNP are at now.

The legal imprint at the bottom means that that’s official SNP election communication. One assumes it’s intended for leaflets to be put through actual voters’ letterboxes.

We’re almost lost for words.

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Hi! I noticed, with very considerable amusement, your complaint last night that I hadn’t made a “substantive reply” to the [EDIT] EIGHT posts (totalling nearly 11,000 words) of semi-coherent ranting about me that you’ve made on your site in the last eight days.

(I’ll be absolutely honest, I’ve only skimmed the last few.)

We both know the reason that’s so tear-streamingly comical, of course.

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In so far as it’s worth talking about Scottish constitutional politics at all these days, it’s worth taking a moment to analyse the bloodless, anodyne nothingness spouted by the First Minister on The Sunday Show at the weekend.

That clip is less than three minutes long, but it’s so soul-crushingly boring and full of content-free drone and waffle that it’s almost impossible to sit all the way through it, so we’re going to translate and summarise it for you.

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Warning: despite the quite zingy title this is actually going to be a very dry stats post, readers. It is, on the other hand, based on a man having something disturbingly close to a complete psychotic mental breakdown, so there’s always that for a bit of colour.

Because the paragraph above, and in particular the highlighted part, is without a doubt the most dishonest, diametrically false and wildly extreme lie about Scottish politics that we’ve ever seen anyone tell in the 13.5 years of Wings Over Scotland’s existence.

And folks, that’s a high bar.

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Social media was having a good chuckle at this earlier today.

But as it turns out, it’s a bit more than just an embarrassment.

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The deranged stalker who’s now posted 72 blogposts totalling 62,500 words attacking Wings in the last few years had another go last night, over this.

And as a rule we don’t bother addressing them because they’re so demented you could spend 5,000 words pulling apart all the individual strands of lunacy every time, and lunatics thrive on attention, but this one does merit a very brief comment.

Because “Vote Labour, get indy” wasn’t our plan. It was John Swinney’s.

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Even by the embarrassing standards of The National, the gulf between this morning’s blaring front-page splash and the weak, watery weasel words in the actual article is a chasm so wide and so yawning (in every sense of that word) that it would put the epic planetary scar of Mars’ Valles Marineris to shame.

Coupled with a feebly underwhelming Programme For Government (in which the main policy was the re-abolition of peak rail fares just months after the SNP insisted such a move was unaffordable, with no clue as to where the money had suddenly been found) and a pitiful list of candidates for next year’s Holyrood election featuring the likes of Sally “all aboard the gravy bus!” Donald, Kaukab “DECAPITATE TERFS” Stewart, Kirsten “DECAPITATE TERFS” Oswald, Alison “DECAPITATE TERFS” Thewliss and Alyn “throw anyone who doesn’t want to DECAPITATE TERFS out of the SNP” Smith, the story was an abject vision of a bleak future for independence.

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On reflection, we feel we may have not taken this story seriously enough. After all, they don’t put just ANY old guff on the front page of the Sunday Mail.

So we’ve decided to make amends.

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Because it’s Trannah Rodger so you probably already assumed it’s bollocks.

SPOILER: you were right.

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