If Scotland is to be independent, then why not London? And good luck to what’s left

Here is a fun game for you. In only four words, try to sum up why anybody north of the border might fancy independence. Have a think. Something to rival the neat ‘No Taxation Without Representation’ quip of the American colonialists of the 18th century. Tricky, eh?

And yet, with other famous independence movements, it’s a doddle. After the Boer war, ‘We Are Basically Dutch’ could have done it in South Africa. Gandhi was a bit too loquacious to have managed four words in British India, but ‘You’re Stealing From Us’ would have worked. For the Irish, there were loads of options: ‘We Voted For It’, or maybe, ‘Ahem, There’s a Sea’.

Even now, the Basques could have ‘We Don’t Speak Spanish’, the Tibetans ‘You Killed Our Monks’ and the Chechens ‘It Makes Crime Easier’. But the Scots? I’ve been wracking my brain, and I’m close to stumped. ‘It’s Scotland’s Oil’ would have been a contender once, but it seems a bit short-sighted these days. ‘They’re Scotland’s Prospective Wind Farms’ just doesn’t have the same kick. And anyway, it’s a word too long. Quite honestly, try as I might, I reckon I can only think of two. They are ‘Why the Hell Not?’ and ‘We’re a Bit Bored’.

Do many Scots really fancy independence? God knows. I suspect, however, not. Polling is a bit of a mess in Scotland, but when the question is asked straight out, about one in three seems keen. Throw in phrases like ‘end the Union’ or ‘leave Britain’ and support plummets. And yet, a cult of grinding inevitability has somehow emerged. Whether it is five years or 50 years, Scottish independence has started to feel like a ‘when’, not an ‘if’.

Why? What is in it for anybody? You stop and step back and think about it, and you have to wonder. Under the last Tory government there was a gripe, and that gripe was under-representation. By the time John Major left office, there were barely enough Tory MPs to staff the Scottish Office. Popular opinion had begun to regard them almost as imperial governors, like Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem. But these days, Scots are better represented than anybody else in the Union, up to and including Londoners.

True, Holyrood still mainly attracts a fairly poor calibre of jumped-up councillor Schmo (note that even the SNP’s rising talent still heads to Westminster) but time might change that, and independence might not. Scotland has a robust internal debate, far-reaching powers over public services, and some powers over tax. Tinker with the Union by all means, but end it? What is the point? There is little for Scotland to want that it doesn’t already have.

And yet, sooner or later, that referendum is going to come. It’s like a bleak, closing-time argument in a pub that nobody but the bampots want, but nobody else has the guts to stop. Some suggest we need a UK-wide referendum, so the whole Union can be saved or damned. Ye Gods, must we? Have we really the stomach for the hellish UKIPishness of that? English separatism is even more nonsensical than its Scottish counterpart. From the blogs and the messageboards and the letters in newspapers, suddenly, there are Englishmen who genuinely seem to think that jettisoning Scotland would improve their lives. For a Scot, that’s terrifying.

The urge for Scottish independence merely baffles me. The urge for English independence, fringe as it is, I find genuinely offensive. Does that sound ludicrous to anybody who isn’t a fellow chippy Caledonian? Could be. But Scottish independence merely advocates separatism. English independence advocates exclusion. It takes this great United Kingdom we’ve all made, and it sets about kicking people out of it.

Damn you. I won’t go. And look, England doesn’t really subsidise Scotland. Please stop saying that. It doesn’t help. In truth, London and the South-east subsidises everywhere else. The Barnett formula may need a little work, but if there’s a coherent moral case that my London Scottish taxes should benefit Northumberland and Cornwall more than they benefit Sutherland and Strathclyde, I’ve yet to hear it.

So, I’ve been thinking. How to make the English care? I mean, really care? How can we make sensible English as keen on the Union as sensible Scots? Here’s a plan. A modest proposal. If the referendum really is coming, if the loons of north and south really are going to team up and try to force the end of this Union upon us, let us take it all a little further. More options. Not just an independent Scotland, but an independent London, too.

Tempted? Why not? You leftover English, Welsh and Northern Irish, you could really make it work. True, you’ll never be a major nation, up there with France and Germany and the rest, but you’ll certainly be more significant than Scotland. Heck, in GDP terms, you might even give Poland a run for its money.

Or maybe we could all just stick with what we’ve got. Even though we’re a bit bored. Why the hell not?

Afine tale of animal suffering reached me other day, and it seems too grimly hilarious not to share. It happened to a friend’s mother, out walking her dogs. She was in a wild part of Scotland that will remain nameless, just in case she broke any laws.

This lady has many, many dogs. Five? Nine? Small, yappy things. I have met most of them. Off the leash, they surge, an amorphous mass. On this particular day, they saw a fox. They were off.

The friend’s mother gave chase, but she was too far away. She heard snarls and yaps, and those wild, cat-like noises I’m told that foxes make when they fight. Eventually she waded in, laying about with boots and stick. She was too late. The dogs pranced away, thrilled. The fox was on its side, all bloodied and mangled.

As you might expect from the five or nine dogs, the lady was an animal lover. Farming stock, yes, but a fox fan. It seemed too late for vets. She was distraught. She wept. She found herself a boulder and, looking deep into the fading eyes, slammed it down on to the stricken animal’s head. Then, wiping tears, she turned to her dogs. Five or nine leads later, she turned back. And the fox was gone.

Literally. Not dead. Gone. Isn’t that the worst thing you ever heard? Poor creature. It must have thought she was as bad as them.