Brexit, Ireland and borders: just say yes

When a problem is sticky, sometimes only a big, bold change of direction will solve it.

This week, the UK proposed a Brexit plan.  Ireland and the rest of the European Union have said it doesn't work, and the UK will have to do a lot better.

This has upset the Brits.  They aren't used to being told "no".  So we need another approach.

My suggestion is simple.  Instead of saying "no" or "maybe" or "yes but", we in Ireland say "yes and".

What the Brits want

In outline, the British plan is:

The border in Ireland

1. Ireland and the EU agree that the Brits can monitor customs etc by deploying a lot of clever checks along the border in Ireland.  Cameras everywhere, lorries and vans and cars being tracked and monitored.  Lorries have to  be sealed.  All trade has to be recorded.
2. Checkpoints will be well back from the border.  Maybe 10 miles away.
3. Not everything has to be monitored.  Some things can go through unchecked, unless until the Brits decide to change their rules.  Then the deal is off, and everything has to be checked.
4. The deal has to be renewed every four years by the Northern Ireland Assembly, where 30 members can veto it.
5. If the deal is vetoed, then everything gets stopped and checked at the border.
6. If these clever checks don't work, then everything gets stopped and checked at the border, even if there's no veto.

So my suggestion is that Ireland said a big form YES to all that ... and YES to applying the same thing in England.

The border in England

The border in England

In the spirit of equity, we have drawn up a map of the border in England.  This is only fair, because the border in Ireland was drawn up by the Brits.  When we objected, they offered us a Boundary Commission to review it, which happened in 1925.

So we will offer them a Boundary Commission too.  It will be built on the same basis as the 1925 Boundary Commission, with three members: two (including the chair) nominated by the creator of the boundary, and one nominated by the divided country.  So the new Boundary Commission will have two Irish members, and one British.  And like the 1925 Commission, its report will be what the two members want, not the one.  And as in 1925, if the British don't like that, Ireland will agree to bin the Boundary Commission's report.

The Border win England will operate on exactly the same terms as apply at the same time to the border in Ireland.

So

• If the border in Ireland is entirely open with no checks on anything ... then the border in England will be entirely open with no checks on anything,
• If the border in Ireland has clever technology, with cameras and satellite trackers and customs posts well back from the border .... then the border in England will be the same.
• If the border in Ireland is a hard border with customs posts at every crossing and fences in between ... then the border in England will be a hard border with customs posts at every crossing and fences in between.
• And if the DUP vetoes the arrangements which keep the border open ... then border in England closes too.

 Fairness

The English love to describe themselves as fair-minded people.  So they will love this simple proposal which is based entirely on the perfectly fair principle of Ireland applying to England the same terms that England applies to Ireland.

What's not to like?

Arlene, Arlene

There's only one way for Theresa May to rescue her Brexit deal.  That's to make sure that the Backstop includes only Northern Ireland, and not the rest of the UK.

This is of course what was originally agreed with the EU in December 2017, so neither Ireland nor the rest of the EU27 would object to reverting to Plan A.

All that's needed is for Arlene Foster to accept that Northern Ireland will have a different trading status to the rest of the UK ... just as it already has a different status on abortion and same-sex marriage, and wants to have on corporation tax.

So if Arlene will accept this and still support May's government, it's all sorted.  The Deal will pass.

But it's a big ask.  Arlene has said her big Ulster no.

In the unionist tradition, it has been repeated in chorus: No! No! No! No! No!

So Theresa's only chance is a plea from the heart.  And of course, any plea from the heartr has to be made in song.  So here's the song:

Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
I'm begging of you please don't take my deal
Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
Please don't take it just because you can

Your party is beyond compare
With wads of cash for ash you care
With hide-like skin and eyes of polished steel
Your smile is like a rictus grin
Your voice does grate like mortal pain
And I cannot compete with you, Arlene

I talk about you in my sleep
There's nothing I can do to keep
From crying when I hear your name, Arlene
And I can easily understand
How you could easily take my deal
But you don't know what it means to me, Arlene

Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
I'm begging of you please don't take my deal
Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
Please don't take it just because you can

You could have your choice of deals
But I could never deal again
That's the only one for me, Arlene
I had to have this talk with you
My happiness depends on you
And whatever you decide to do, Arlene

Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
I'm begging of you please don't take my deal
Arlene, Arlene, Arlene, Arlene
Please don't take it just because you can
Arlene, Arlene

Apologies to Dolly.

The Neighbours From Hell

Before 1169:

Sporting rivalry between the lads.  Grand.
Sport often mistaken for fights 'cos we hadn't invented blunt hurleys.  Feck.
Viking stag nights in Temple Bar get way out of line.  Feck.
Brian gives Vikings a one-way ticket on the DART to Clontarf.  Grand.

1169: 

Dermot invites the neighbours in to help sort out a domestic.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell refuse to leave the farm.  Feck.

1169–1916:

Neighbours from hell hang around the farm making trouble.  Feck.
They take over all the rooms. Neighbours from hell kill lots of us.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell chase us across the stream to the western corner of the farm.  Feck.
Not much to eat there.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell steal our food.  Feck.
Lots of us starve.   Feck.
And feck Dermot.

1916:

Some of the lads pick a hopeless fight with neighbours from hell.  Grand.
The neighbours from hell get it all out of proportion, and kill the lads.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell send us to university in Wales to learn how to fight.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell are fools.  Grand.

1917:

We come home to the farm. Grand.
Decide not to fight, but play this game neighbours from hell call "elections".   Grand.

1918:

We win election. Grand.

1919:

Neighbours from hell pretend election never happened.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell start fight.  Feck.

1920:

Neighbours from hell kill lots of us. Feck.
Neighbours from hell burn Cork.  Even the Dubs say feck.

1921:

Neighbours from hell lose fight.  Grand.

1922:

Neighbours from hell promise to move out.  Grand.
We check the small print: neighbours from hell keep the upper field and their sign on the farm gate.  Feck.

1923:

Neighbours from hell have have left us all on edge.  Feck.
We fight each other about leaving their sign on the farm gate.  Feck.

1927:

We buy an electricity-making machine from neighbours from hell's neighbour Fritz.  Grand.
Machine costs half the year's money.  Feck.

1932: 

Blue shirts become fashionable.  Feck.

1933:

We stop paying neighbours from hell for buying back the farm they stole from us.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell stop buying our burgers.  Feck.

1936:

Neighbours from hell agree to buy burgers again.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell also abandon their huts on the edge of the farm.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell keep upper field and sign on the farm gate.  Feck. 
Blue shirt-wearers go to Spain to fight for some bald headcase.  Lads, lads, ...

1939:

Neighbours from hell get into a fight with Fritz.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell ask us to help fight Fritz, offering to maybe return upper field when Fritz is beaten.  Feck.
We say no.  Fritz asks for help.  Feck.
We say no.  Grand.

1941:

Fritz sets fire to upper field.  Feck.
Great Uncle Eamon makes us put out fire.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell keep upper field.  Feck.

1945:

Fritz loses fight, badly.  Grand.
Turns out Fritz even more out of line than we thought.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell bollock us for not fighting Fritz.  Feck.
We point to our fire extinguishers in upper field, but neighbours from hell put finger in ears.  Feck.

1948:

Neighbours from hell are away in South Asia giving Ashok back his house.  Grand.
While they are busy, we take neighbours from hell sign off the farm gate.  Grand.

1950s:

Great Uncle Eamon goes gaga.  Feck.
Farm goes to hell.  Feck.
We get hungry.  Feck.
Half our children move in with neighbours from hell.  Feck.

1959:

Uncle Sean takes over the farm from Great Uncle Eamon.  Grand.
We start eating again.  Grand.

1960:

Long-lost cousin Jack gets a big new job in someone else's white house.  Grand.

1963:

Cousin Jack comes home for visit.  Grand.
We all say we remember him.  Grand.
Cousin Jack goes back to his white house and gets shot.  Feck.

1965:

Uncle Sean has a few jars with Terry, who is running the upper field on behalf of the neighbours from hell.  Grand.

1968:

Neighbours from hell's children in the upper field start gestalt therapy. Grand.

1969:

Neighbours from hell start shooting in the upper field. Feck.
Children start shooting back. We can't agree if it's grand or feck.

1973:

Fritz's much much nicer succesor Angela invites us and neighbours from hell to join her club. Grand.
Neighbours from hell agree to at least start calming down the upper field. Grand.

1974:

Neighbours from hell take eye off upper field. Feck.
It all goes to hell. Feck.

1979:

Neighbours from hell put witch in charge. Feck.
Bullets still bouncing around upper field. Feck.

1981:

Witch won't let kids in upper field chose their own clothes. Feck. 
Kids refuse to eat without own clothes. Feck.
Kids die.  Feck, feck, feck. 
More bullets bouncing around upper field.  Feck.

1983:

Family smokes spiked joint, and family decides that the girls are equal to something inside them.  Feck.

1985:

It rains all summer.  Feck.
Statues start crying and moving.  Grand. (Honest, it really is grand.)
Bullets still bouncing around upper field.  Feck.

1990:

Witch loses broomstick, fecks off.  Grand.
Her nephew John takes over.  Grand.
Uncle Albert takes over the farm from Uncle-whose-name-we-wont mention.  Grand.
Bullets still flying in upper field.  Feck.
John makes friends with Uncle Albert.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell's boy Jack teaches our lads to kick pigs bladder.  Grand.
Lads get good at kicking pigs bladder.  Grand.
Our lads go to international kick pigs bladder competition.  Grand.
Our lads get beaten.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell's boy Jack is even more grand.

1992:

Seems Cousin Eamon didn't use a condom. Feck. 
Angela changes the name of her club. Hmmmm.
Neighbours from hell fight each other about new name of club. Grand.

1993:

Bill, the new man in long-lost-cousin Jack's job, tells John to sort out the upper field. Grand.

1994:

Shooting in upper field stops. Grand.

1995:

Neighbours from hell's man John screws up, and shooting resumes in upper field.  Feck.
Our farm has higher yield than neighbours from hell. Grand.
WE SHOUT REPEATEDLY THAT WE WILL TRY NOT TO GLOAT.

1997:

Neighbours from hell's man John goes is replaced by a teenager called Tony. Hmmm.
Our Uncle Albert had been ousted by John who was ousted by Bertie. Hmmm.
Bertie and Tony both make friends with Bill. Grand.

1998:

Bill makes Tony and Bertie do a deal on the upper field.  Grand.
We'll all share the upper field. Grand ... I suppose.
We all become friends with neighbours from hell.  Grand.

1999:

Neighbours from hell start coming over to wreck Temple Bar.  Feck.
We start charging them €8 a pint.  Grand.

2000:

Angela takes over our purse.  Feck.
Small print in that club name change.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell had read the small print.  Feck.
Angela lets us use our purses.  Grand.
Angela amuses herself by pouring coins through a hole in our purse.  Hmmm.

2001:

Neighbours from hell's boy Tony goes mad and starts wandering around the world picking fights.  Feck.
But not with us.  Grand.

2004:

We're getting on grand with neighbours from hell, so invite whole street to join Angela's club. Grand.

2005:

Whole street comes charging onto the farm. Grand.
They build Lego houses all over the farm.  Grand.
The Lego houses are empty.  Feck.
Angela says don't worry.  Grand.

2007:

Nobody in the upper field is talking to each other.  Feck.
Tony and Bertie persuade one bad boy from each corner to to jointly take over the upper field.  Grand.
Bad boys from each corner laugh a lot.  Grand.

2008:

Uncle Brian takes over the farm from Bertie. Grand.
Someone tells Brian the purse looks thin.  Feck.
Angela says it will be fine so long as we fill everyone else's piggy bank.  Grand.

2009:

We pour coins into everyone else's piggy bank, like Angela said. Grand.

2010:

Our purses are empty. Feck.
Angela says she will help. Grand.
Angela says that her definition of "help" means we owe her for all the coins she poured through the hole in our purse. Feck.
Angela says we also owe all her friends for all their bad loans. Feck.
Angela takes our house.  Feck.
Angela says we have to pay her for all the Lego houses.  Feck. 
Even tho the Lego houses are now owned by Uncle Sam and we never saw a penny.  Feck.
We are living in a tent on the farm, surrounded by empty Lego houses.  Feck. 
Neighbours from hell lend us a few bob to tide us over.  Grand.

2011:

Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og take over running what's left of the farm.  Grand.
They say they'll send Angela home and get back our house.  Grand.
They say they'll get rid of the Lego houses.  Grand.
We're still allowed to share the upper field with the neighbours from hell.  Grand.
But we're still sleeping in the tent.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell's granny comes to visit.  Feck.
She doesn't steal our house.  Grand.
That's cos Angela has already stolen it.  Feck.

2012:

Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og move into the house with Angela.  Grand.
But we have to stay in the tent.  Feck.
The kids start leaving the farm.  Feck.

2013:

Angela and Uncle Sam start buying and selling the Lego houses to each other. Feck.
This makes Angela and Uncle Sam rich.  Feck.
We are still sleeping in the tent.  Feck.
Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og tell us to pay tax on the tent.  Feck.

2014:

Angela goes home. Grand. Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og tell us the house is in great shape.  Grand.
We are still sleeping in the tent.  Feck.
Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og tell us to pay for taking water from the stream on the farm.  Feck.
Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og tell us they are doing what Angela said.  Feck.

2015:

We say we won't pay to use the stream. Grand. Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og place us on a criminal charge. Feck.
We are still sleeping in the tent.  Feck.

2016:

The Lego houses start filling with people.  Grand.
But not us.  Feck.
The rents on the lego houses go sky-high, and Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon cheer. But the rents go to Angela and Uncle Sam.  Feck.
We're still sleeping in the tent.  Feck.
We fire Uncle Enda and Uncle Eamon Og.  Grand.
But Uncle Michael doesn't want want to take over the farm, so he gives the key back to Uncle Enda.  Feck.
Uncle Enda can't unlock the door. Grand. But Uncle Shane helps him pick the lock.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell have a meltdown, say they are leaving Angela's club.  Hmm.

2017:

We ask does this mean we get the house back. Angela says no.  Feck.
Uncle Enda says no.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell say breakfast means breakfast.  Feck.
Angela says Uncle Enda is great. Feck.
Bad boys running the upper field fall out, and return to their corners.  Feck.
Uncle Enda hands over the house to Ashok's son Leo, without asking us.  Feck.
Leo has nice socks.  Grand.
Neighbours from hell form a gang with one of the bad boys from the upper field.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell say they will build a fence between us and the upper field.  Feck.
Leo tells neighbours from hell to behave.  Grand.
Angela says she will help us sort out the neighbours from hell.  Grand.
Angela meets neighbours from hell, who just make silly faces at her.  Feck.
Neighbours from hell start calling Leo rude names.  Feck.

The Maybot's a Mystery Pol

The Maybot's a Mystery Pol: she's called the Hidden Leader -
For she's the master bluffer, so only fools will heed her.
She's the bafflement of Channel Four, the BBC's despair:
When they want to ask a question - the Maybot is not there!

The Maybot, The Maybot, there's no one like the Maybot,
She's broken every human law, she breaks the law of polity.
Her powers of disappearance would make Houdini stare,
When there's debate about her fate - The Maybot is not there!
You may seek her in the studio, or the interviewee's chair -
But I tell you once and once again, The Maybot is not there!

The Maybot's a Tory bot, her smile is fake and thin;
You would know her if you saw her, for her lips are reddened in.
Her brow is deeply lined with fear, her hair is poshly mown;
Her heart is dusty from neglect, her principles unknown.
She thinks she's strong for being wrong, and promises a stable;
Like a horse who kissed the Blarney Stone, her sound is hollow Babel.

The Maybot, The Maybot, there's no one like The Maybot,
She's computer code in human shape, an app that's never hot.
You won't meet her in a by-street, nor see her in the square -
And when a question's posited, the Maybot is not there!

She's outwardly respectable. (Tho her sidekicks look like lard.)
Her dodgy campaign spending fills the files of Scotland Yard.
But when the u-turn spins around, or a note to Trump needs signing,
Or the Brexit plan is missing, and the cloud's no silver lining,
Or the hospitals are broken, and the teachers in despair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! The Maybot is not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - The Maybot is not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
'It can't have been The Maybot!' - 'cos she surely wasn't there.
You'll be sure to find her resting, or a-licking of her thumbs,
But never doing something difficult like long division sums.

The Maybot, The Maybot, there's no one like the Maybot,
For election time engagement she gives not a single jot.
She always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - THE MAYBOT WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Tories whose wicked deeds are widely spat on,
(I might mention bungling Hammond, I might mention foolish Fallon)
Are but clones made from the Maybot, who like one accused of crimes
Just hides from every question: the chicken of our times.

Dear America

Dear America

You are grounded until further notice.

We put up with you pointing nuclear missiles at us all, and invading everywhere you feel like.

We endured your mangling of words like aluminium, your eating of submarines, your taking of hoods off your anoraks to place them on the front of your cars, and we don't kill very many of you for the felony of saying "cool", or even for the war crime of saying "awesome".

We don't rebuke you too often for having an infant mortality rate higher than Cuba, or for having millions of people with no proper access to medicine. And instead of warning you against your nutritionally-defective habit of buying food through your car windows, we offer small attempts to emulate you. (We do not, however, make more than rare efforts to copy your habit of sexual intercourse in cars. Our vehicles are just too small, so to avoid coital back injuries we stick with in-car snogging. Sorry; no offence intended.)

We tried to be polite when you elected a doddery fantasist of an actor as your leader, and most of us weren't all that rude when 20 years later you elected a chimp to replace a super-shagger with a McDonalds addiction. We set all of that aside to cheer to the heavens when you elected a charming, urbane young Offaly man with the eloquence of a prophet, and we haven't chided you too often for allowing him to be a do-nothing leader. We share your disappointment.

We don't berate you all the time about your obsession with carrying guns to kill each other, or your global network of military bases with which to threaten the rest of us. We are quite restrained in our language about your now ex-President's fetish for spending Tuesday evenings flicking though a kill list to identify people on whom he will illegally rain down death from heaven. (Just get help, bro. Please.)

Heck, we sometimes even go several whole days without reminding you that your nation territory is land which you stole from the people who you nearly exterminated in a prolonged genocide, and that America was built with the labour of slaves whose descendants your cops still like humiliating -- and all, too often, shooting. And we're deeply grateful to you for giving a home to the many millions of people who our own countries' sociopathic rulers wouldn't feed.

But now, despite our warnings and pleas, you have gone ahead and installed an elderly toddler as your President.

Yes, a toddler. An elderly toddler, but emotionally still a toddler, and an ill-parented one at that. With as severe a case of narcissistic personality disorder as most of ever see outside of a 18th-century asylum's freak show.

Enough. Seriously, enough already.

Stop the moaning about Ruskie meddling in your election. Your own election system is thoroughly rigged through voter suppression and gerrymandering and dodgy voting machines and corporate media and fatcat dollars. With that home-grown emulation of Zimbabwean elections, anyone else's interference is trivial. And after 70 years of your CIA meddling in elections around the globe and overthrowing democratically-elected governments likes skittles in a bowling alley, we're not interested in your moans about someone playing a really mild version of your own game back at you. Get over it.

This time, just sort it out. Make it stop, and get yourself a sane adult as your leader.

It doesn't have to be a clever leader, or an eloquent leader, or one we agree with, or even a shaggable leader like the smooth metrosexual underachiever who you have just pensioned off. Just a sane and adult leader.

It's not much to ask. And as soon as you do that, you'll be ungrounded. Then we'll give you a hug, buy you a drink or several, and go back to treating you again as our big amiable, miscreant friend who makes brilliant music and The Simpsons.

Lottsa love,
Planet Earth

PS This a letter to the nation of America, not to my wonderful American friends who are even less happy about this than we are, and are gonna need plenty of support during their next four years in the United States of Narcissia. Love y'all <3

What is cricket?

A North American recently asked me something about cricket.  I am not English, but have lived in England and have been dragged along to watch it, so I tried to help.

But first, a warning: if you try to understand cricket as a sport, your head will explode. Don't do it!

Cricket is a ritualised social activity, acted out as a form of dry surrealism.  It is predominantly played not in stadiums, but on village greens.  It's a village ritual, designed to create the illusion of community activity while minimising both actual activity and meaningful social engagement. (For those unfamiliar with the men of England, activity is regarded as ungentlemanly, best left to women, peasants and foreigners. Genuine socialisation is deplored, and polite conversation should not extend beyond the two acceptable topics: weather and cricket.)

There are nominally two teams of 11 people, but at any given time 9 of these 22 people are not even on the grass.  Of the 13 people nominally playing, most of them are standing in remote corners of the field, scratching their crotch.  Most of the rest spend most of the time standing around doing nothing.

The whole thing takes so long that in course of any one game, many people are born, educated, married, become parents, get divorced, remarry, build careers, retire and die.  Plenty of people go along allegedly to watch, but that is only a ruse to confuse outsiders, because anyone who actually stayed to watch the whole thing would be an unidentifiable fossil by the time the game was over.

Tea served at an English village cricket match in 2009

In sports with a ball, that ball is the focal point of the game.  Not in cricket, which is actually centred on the tea.  Piles of anaemic sandwiches are accompanied by soggy cakes, and vast quantities of bad tea served out of huge urns.

An important part of the ritual is that the tea is served in hugely impractical cups and saucers, which are lovely on a table, but a nuisance when standing on a field or sitting in deckchairs.  The resulting effort to balance the cup and saucer keeps both hands occupied, which stops the men hitting each other and distracts everyone else from paying too much attention to the conversation they are nominally having. Any remaining points of conversational difficulty are bound to be interrupted at some point in the next ten minutes, when the ball starts moving again.

The movements of the ball are theoretically regulated by rules.  However, the rules do not actually exist.  They are merely an incomprehensible vocabulary which in participants converse instensely to avoid spending too much time moving the ball around.  Naturally, all participants strictly uphold the pretence that there are actual rules, to uphold an illusion of insider knowledge and thereby giving them status over outsiders who develop psychoses trying to understand them.

A cricket umpire performing
random angry gestures
to disorientate participants

In addition to the 13 players and the 9 idlers, there is also an umpire, whose nominal role is to enforce the non-existent rules. His actual function is to frown a lot, and engage in animated conversations with players, using as much as possible of the incomprehensible vocabulary. This helps to prolong the gaps between movements of the ball, and if the players are excessively co-operative, a crucial umpiring skill is the ability to invent new terminology to confuse everyone and further delay the return of the ball.

Sometimes the new terminology is insufficiently engaging and distracting. In such situations, the umpire is required to adopt a pompously bossy demeanour, while performing bizarre and/or threatening hand gestures.

Cricket scoreboard

At the end of the day (or several days for some cricket games), after someone has finished putting random numbers up on an incomprehensible board, a nominal sporting result is declared.  This bears no relation to the bizarre numbers, and is in fact determined by an Anglican vicar reading the entrails of a mouldy cucumber sandwich.

In any case, nobody cares about the result. This makes the whole thing familiar to the Anglican vicar whose life is spent mouthing religious talk to people who have no interest in religion and are only in church as a way of dodging the rites of England's real religion, which is ritualised car-washing on Sunday.

Then everyone goes home to wallow in the corpse of their marriages, having pretended to spend a whole day socialising with other villagers ... but having fulfilled the primary social obligation of an English person, which is to carefully avoid any real conversation about anything at all.

So That's Alright, Then

Lucy Frazer MP
who joked about slavery

Yesterday in Westminster, the new Scottish MP Lucy Frazer made her maiden speech in the House of Commons.

As usual, her maiden speech was heard without interruption. Like some others, she lightened the tone with a brief joke.

Frazer noted how in the 17th century a general from her constituency had won a battle in England, and transported the captured English soldiers into slavery.  Frazer noted that this approach could be a solution to the current tensions between England and Scotland, albeit not one that she would approve of.

The reaction was predictable. The Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph carried her remarks as minor items on the front page, expanded inside with quotes from outraged English MPs. The Daily Express made her remarks their lead story, under the banner headline "Enslave the English, says Scottish MP", while their leader column said "Stop the Hate". Across England, radio phone-ins invited callers to express their outrage ... and journalists flocked to Edinburgh to demand that the First Minister of Scotland denounce Ms Frazer for her abuse of the privilege of an uninterupted maiden speech.

Of course, it didn't happen quite like that.  The offending remarks were indeed made by the newly-elected MP, Luzy Frazer, but she is an English Tory. She thought it funny to joke that her South East Cambridgeshire constituency:

was the home of Oliver Cromwell, who defeated the Scots at Dunbar, incorporated Scotland into his protectorate and transported the Scots as slaves to the colonies. Now, there is an answer to the West Lothian question—but not one, of course, that I would recommend.
— Hansard, HC Deb, 4 June 2015, column 827

So that's alright then.

That's why there were no newspaper headlines, no phone-ins, no demands for apology.