I replied to you 7:19am comment (I only just spotted it a short time ago) but my reply went to moderation because it was addressed to your real moniker directly, I think – it might show up later. But if it doesn’t the gist of it was that I hope you don’t mind my ‘letter’ and muse hyperbole (I thought it might give you a laugh) – if you do I’ll stop.

In fact, I’ll stop anyway just in case you do mind. With your current restrictions limiting your ability to respond to my drivel, it seems unfair for me to continue with it.

Just spotted this, Ruby. I thought as much but wasn’t sure. I hope you don’t mind my ‘letters’ and my muse hyperbole – I’ll stop if you want me to. I just thought they might give you a laugh. But unless you tell me to stop I might be tempted to post more on this thread.

Maybe I’ll conjure up another past life, Cervantes, perhaps, and have them write to you.

I don’t think he minds piss artists as long as they aren’t too disruptive. If he did he’d have PMT’d me months ago and wouldn’t have let me back on here. 🙂

Rab’s offered me a regular spot on offtopicscotland. I’m drawn to the idea so there might be a lot more of my ‘stuff’ showing up there if it all works out – we’ll see.

Oh, and If you don’t want my email address I totally understand and promise you I will not be offended. I just thought I’d make the offer is all – in case you were heartbroken at not being able to take the piss out of me.

Nice to ‘hear your voice’ again today.

My sweet Violet,

I write in the earnest hope this letter finds you in good spirits.

It has been long weeks now since last we spoke and the guns have fallen silent for now, thankfully. I think it’s lunchtime on the moor.

Les grenouille for dinner again today, God help me.

I no longer have the legs to consume yet another frog’s legs.

How I yearn for some stout beef with a couple of hefty potatoes – as must you, my dear. Albeit mine is a culinary desire.

I have used up the garlic and cuisses de grenouille from the last ‘food parcel’ you sent me.

The Nespresso pods were a kind gesture. I look at them each day and dearly wish someone had bought me a Nespresso coffee machine for one of my birthdays to use them with – but it’s the thought that counts, I suppose.

I might chew on one later and try to soukie oot whatever caffeine I can get from it.

Autumn is almost upon us and I mourn the absence of those trees blasted into oblivion that once would have blessed the eyes with a stunning gold and russet equinox . It is desolation here – even the sky is interminably colourless.

Yet when I think of you I am enveloped by a comforting warmth – although that might just be my incontinence gaining the upper-hand.

A comforting warmth that foreshadows the glow of anticipation; the early stirrings of an eagerness to once more set eyes upon your inspirational scribblings.

We have a nurse who visits us here in the trenches from time to time. Nurse Naechaunce is her name (I think she’s French). She is less approachable than our previous nurse, Nurse Anesimmersdottir (who is Swedish, I believe), but a welcome sight nonetheless. She keeps we men here pepped up on pills and helps ease our suffering.

I must go now and prepare. For soon I must ‘go over the top’ and confront the ‘enemy’.

I will write again soon with more news from the Northcode Front.

Be strong, my dearest.

Yours always, Ernest.

PMT = pre moderation time.

It has been silent here for some time now, but the guns have started up again. I do not know why, my CO tells me it’s something to do with today’s date.

Thousands are being slaughtered and no-one knows why.

The birds tell us here in the trenches that there’s no reason behind it at all. We are in the grip of a kind of madness, it seems.

In contrast, the sound of your typing has fallen silent once more; but my spirit is maintained in the knowledge, in the hope, that one day I will again experience the joy of reading your scribblin’ douns.

I must leave you for now, dear Violet. A fresh batch of coffee is on the brew and I must take the opportunity to imbibe its bitter warmth whilst I can (there is no Nespresso here – so the coffee is shit).

I will write soon with more news from the Northern Front.

In the meantime, I send you this heartfelt verse:

The cruel gods forbade my muse,
And confined me to this trope.
To this place bereft of colour.
To this place bereft of hope.
This monochromatic hell.

Yours always, Ernest.

But there’s nothing glorious about it, for a couple of reasons.

There’s no glory in the entitled rich swaggering across Scotland slaughtering defenceless creatures in the name of a barbaric ‘sport’.

The numbers of grouse are kept artificially high so their killing on a massive scale can be justified under the excuse of population control.

Apparently the ‘sport’ is worth more than £176 million to Scotland everybody involved except the Scots.

But there’s another reason today isn’t all that glorious – I hope I’m wrong, but I fear Hilda has been put on the NS.

Morning Hilda – I hope you are well. I’m already missing your wit.

I might send you a ‘letter’ every do or so like I did with my virtuous Violet when I was stuck in the trenches in a previous life back in 1916.

I’d often wait weeks, sometimes a couple of months, for Violet’s replies and I am wiling to do so again (not in a trench, though. That was awful) in anticipation of that truly glorious day when you return.

Yours, Ernest (that was my name back then).

PPPPPS (I think I’ve won the P(eeing). Or is that cheating?

Sorry I’ve taken a while to respond to you, Hilda – it’s been a busy day.

I have my doubts about that Nurse Ane Simmers. I think she slips Bromide in my tea along with those wee blue pills and I’m sure that’s why I’m up one day and down the next.

I missed your compliment – thank you for that :). I must have been more tirederer than I thought last night.

“PPS Good News…”:

That is good news. I’m relying on those ‘lassies’ not knowing the difference. I guess I’ll only find out once I change my moniker to ‘NorthToad’.

“PPPS Bad News…” :

I’m not sure if that bad news is as bad as you make out. But I’ll take your advice anyway – just in case.

“PPPPS When I say ‘Frenchies’…”

A handsome prince? Definitely – at least that’s what my mirror mirror on the wall tells me every morning (I wonder if it’s lying to me).

A tight butt? Not quite – nothing a week or two (probably two, or even three – or maybe a few more) at the gym wouldn’t sort out, though.

A ten bob note in my pocket? Possibly – but I’d have to do a fair bit of rummaging about to find it. It hasn’t been used since 1970; since it was replaced with a 50p piece.

I haven’t tried to compete with your P(eeing) today – but that doesn’t mean I won’t try again tomorrow (it depends on whether the nurse slips me a diuretic in my tea or not.

You’ve been quiet today, Hilda. I hope you haven’t been naughty stepped – that would be an unbearable tragedy, just unbearable.

Oh God of Wings please let it not be so!

Who knows what I might do in my despair if you have been NS’d?

I might decide to stop visiting this place. What would be the point?

I might decide to resume my quest and go looking for windmills to tilt at (or make nice liqueurs in) instead.

Or I might even decide to prostrate myself before the God of Wings and beseech him to restore you to me (I’ve heard he’s a tough nut, so it might not work. Worth a try, though, eh no?).

We shall see.

Your dear and loyal friend, Evadne.

“Nobody claimed it was impossible, just unnecessary”

So let’s just check I have this correct.

Continuous disrespectful writing of our country’s name as “scotland” is A-OK.

On a site dedicated to Scotland.

On a site where every country, no matter how reviled and hated by the usual suspects, is routinely written correctly.

It’s just our country that must be continually disrespected and denied her proper name.

Even though it would take no effort whatsoever to elevate puir wee “scotland” to the same level of respect accorded to England, USA, RF, NK, China, the Zonalists, even the U country.

Every one properly capitalised when written on here. But not Scotland, because that’s supposedly not necessary.

Yet you expect the rest of the world to accord Scotland the respect and recognition you yourself deny her.

What the actual fuck is wrong with the whole fucking lot of you?

Naw! He’s no right in the heed.

@Cynicus
Sorry I’ll try to get a better link for you later today. Gotta go to my scratcher now before I turn into a frog or a big fat orange pumkin.

FYI

Scratcher = bed – apparently because set-tl-ers made them of sack cloth and they were itchy. I don’t know if this is a kiwi saying, if it is then possibly one that has been adopted by the UK forces as my bed in the army was always known as my scratcher, or sometimes my ‘pit’.

Why the scratch of dawn?