VIEW FROM THE EDGE........OF THE SHED : Scotch Mist,Trade demarcations explained,soapy coffee car wash

Dont poke a bees nest..or a a Highland correspondent who spends too much time alone walking up hills, being grumpy and thinking too much- after his shocking Panda revelations it seems he has got a bee in his bonnet about something else - I really need to have a word with his responsible adult,this was his latest offering-

Scotlands New Currency

"I see there's a new point of contention on Scottish independence: Scotland says it can stay with the pound, but wants to keep printing it's own (which obviously doesn't have the words 'Bank of England' clearly printed on notes) which are currently printed by the three main Scottish Banks. I say 'Scottish' banks, while acknowledging that the Clydesdale Bank is owned by Australians, Bank of Scotland is English owned, and Royal Bank of Scotland is the laughing stock of the western world, and appears to be principally owned by taxpayers living south of the border.

Personally, I believe we need to think more pragmatically. How about we introduce multiple forms of currency: most obviously, benefits cheques - they form the very backbone of our financial system here in the skiving north, and so the great majority of people would just continue as normal. Food stamps would be the second string of the new financial system, and the third leg (didn't good old Rolf, my childhood hero, invent this??) would be Stella Artois ring pulls and extra strong White Lightning cider bottle tops. Simples. And as we all know, simples suits Alex the Salmon and his bunch of fish farm rejects.

Thinking ahead, we can also cut the extortionate costs of setting up the Brave New Nation by having the DSS double up as the central bank. Hey, this could go so much further. What about selling episodes of the comic-tragedy 'Holyrood: the Debate' to the Comedy Channel? I really, really, really hope you've not managed to catch any of this redneck soap south of the border; it looks like a playground full of very angry, yet terminally bored, primary school children, arguing over who's marble it is, why its not round, who gets to hold it, and why its got mysterious (and smelly) brown stains on it. Oh, and there's a big crack through it, which only gets bigger, and bigger. So hey, who's going to reallocate money from the nationwide methadone project to fix it????

Now, back to my pet topic. How extraordinary that Scotland managed, among all the Giant Pandas out there, to find the pair that so perfectly reflected the Scottish work ethic! 36 hours of work per year! I know there are parts of the West Coast where that would be considered an inhumane level of effort, but give Highlanders their due - I'm pretty sure they could handle this. So, our great leader, Salmo Salmo I think is the right way of addressing his mighty drabness, thinks that, after his recent proclamations on how the main men of Europe would bend over backwards to welcome Scotland into the fold of the oh-so-successful Euro currency, he can deftly shift his foreplay onto the Bank of England. I wonder if, down your way where people wear clothes and can afford to eat, there's a sense of a despotic nutter trying to cash in (literally) on someone else's efforts? But never forget, I said NEVER FORGET, that the North Sea oil is ours. OURS, OURS, OURS.

Did you hear me?

So please. please, can you help us? We are nice people, and we don't understand all those foreign-bus-tour types who look Oriental and don't speak English, sorry, Gaelic, but love to visit our (oh hell, so, yes, they are not ours, they belong to Diageo, Pernod Ricard, and a whole other bunch of Johnny Foreigners) distilleries.

I sense that I've come full circle, and am in danger of stamping the document that confirms that I've lost the plot.

I wish you well, all you lucky muckers, you scheming Southern bastards who are stealing my money, who are taking my proud nation (see Australian actor shouting at and encouraging his band of 3 flea-infested sheep-rustling followers to take up small claims court actions against the mother of all imperial empire builders) to the landfill.

Even I, father of the calm, home of peace, lair of the decent and honest but downtrodden, think I am losing the aforementioned marbles.

I hasten me to the shed to sharpen my Claymore (yes, check that out; it didn't work for us at Culloden) and to daub myself with Tesco blue fabric coloring.