A bit if fanfare here as the king, that is King of England Charles III, poses in his new kilt to commemorate 'Burns Night.' I am left wondering how much this cost? The tartan alone is one designed at great cost for him, the material will be the best available, and the cost of the photographer will not be small. The pretend highlander may pay between £25 and £100 for a kilt these days, I suspect Charlies cost more than this. The whole outfit could, if you wish, cost up to £500 to the man in the street. How much would Charlies cost?
Now, consider this, during the week Charles got into his multimillion pound helicopter wearing his highland outfit, flew up to Alloa where there are no Highlanders as this is the central belt, popped into a Food Bank, flew back, acknowledging the dignitaries who were there in obedience, the public was kept well away, and left no donation of any kind to the hungry people of the area.
Is there any wonder Scotland is turning against this King?
The cost of his outfit alone would be a good donation to any foodbank, and his Tory government created 3000 of them by starving the people! The thousand spent on the helicopter flight, and he an environmentalist too, the cost of the lackeys to pilot the beast, the cost on the ground of the police operation to keep the hungry away from him, it all adds up just for a short photo op!
I will not mention his income, nor his demand for a rise of £45 million this year!
Come the revolution...
On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough,
November, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ requet;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I cannot see,
I guess an’ fear!
