So that’s it then, we’re screwed, it’s official. The UK has a jaundiced tub-thumping head and a flabby cyanosed body.
Despite all the polls and all the analysis, no-one else really stood a chance. Limping off stage is comedy Ed with his weak ankles, followed by Nick Clegg, the department store mannequin, and Farage, that Del boy man-of-the-people, who used to swagger with a fag in his mouth and a pint in his hand but who has now disappeared so far up UKIP’s rectum that he can see out of his own mouth.
On a positive note, there has been a big political clear out, a constipated stool has been squeezed out of the back side of Westminster, lubricated as ever, by the common voter.
We’re far from immune to it up here in Scotland. OK, we pump out a bit of oil, we make a few biscuits and we bang on about the winds of change sweeping through the Highlands, but London is where all the money’s made. Cutting ourselves off from that would be like deliberately trapping your own testicles in a cast iron prison door.
But I can guarantee you this: with the new political reality you’ll be working harder and for longer. Your children will say, ‘I miss you mummy, I wish you could spend more time with me, I wish you could kiss me goodnight’, or, ‘I miss you Daddy, you used to play football with me when it was still light, like a real person’. But you’re not a real person anymore.
And as the full-blooded Scottish Lion roars into the wind and as the economy blooms like a delicate flower, you’ll be left softly crying yourself to sleep.
Now hang on a sec, where on earth did I put those visa forms?
Dr Kevin Hinkley is a GP in Aberdeen.
