Bright and early on Wednesday morning, I welcomed Dr. Angus MacFergus McTavish Dundee Ph.D., President of the American Scottish Independence Society, to my office for a policy consultation.
“Congratulations,” I said as he seated himself primly on the chair immediately in front of my desk, “it looks like the upcoming independence referendum in Scotland next week will be going your way.”
“Frankly,” he sighed, “that’s why I’m here.”
“You don’t seem very cheerful about the prospect,” I observed. “I would have thought you’d have worn your kilt of Dundee Clan tartan and perhaps favored me and Gretchen with a few bagpipe tunes. Or perhaps you’re waiting until after the referendum, when you will be certain there is something to celebrate?”
“Ah yes, you see, Tom,” he sighed, “that’s the problem, right there – sure my friends and I in the ASIS, we relish dressing in tartan kilts and playing the pipes, not to mention flying to Scotland to bring back genuine haggis for Burns Nicht, and sending plenty of money back to there to support the Scottish independence cause, too. There’s no way we Scottish Americans could slack on that, not with the kind of enthusiasm displayed by our Irish American cousins’ organizations such as The Smiling Sons of the Friendly Shillelagh. Call it keeping up with the O’Learys if you like, but there’s no denying it – we’ve been in a kilt and bagpipe competition with the Irish for two hundred years here in America – who has the best whiskey, who speaks the most authentic Gaelic, who has the greatest poets, and of course, our greatest competition, who hates the English the most.”
“Certainly,” I acknowledged, “there’s ample reason for both of you – and the Welsh, for that matter, to have no love lost for the English. But the Irish managed to gain their independence – or eighty-one percent of it, anyway, back in 1922.”
“True,” Dundee conceded, “but by then, we Scots had lost enough wars to England not to be particularly motivated to imitate the Óglaigh na hÉireann.”
“Understood.” I replied. “Therefore, the Scots chose a patiently executed legal struggle to extricate themselves from the English yoke. And now it appears that they are about to succeed. So what’s the problem, to which you referred?”
“Well,” he shrugged, “most of my fellow ASIS members are ready to dance the Gille Chaluim over crossed Claymores in their full tartan clan regalia, of course. And I’m sure there are plenty of folks in Scotland who have similar intentions when the referendum finally gives them the freedom William Wallace fought and died for. But what happens afterward, when we all have to put our trousers back on and deal with the twenty-first century? What is Scotland going to use for currency? What about membership in the United Nations, NATO and the European Union? Can Scotland run its own central bank without ending up like Ireland, or worse, like Iceland? How much of the North Sea oil does Scotland get and what does Scotland do when it runs out? What’s Scotland’s share of the United Kingdom’s national debt and how is Scotland going to pay it off? How high will food prices go after independence? What kind of industries can an independent Scotland rely on for revenue growth and a positive balance of trade? And what about all those British nuclear weapons in Scotland – what happens to them after independence?”
“First of all,” I remarked, “I don’t see why anybody in Scotland should put their trousers back on.”
“You mean,” he exclaimed, “you think everyone should run around dressed in the clan tartan kilts, with their wallets and iPhones tucked in their sporrans?”
“And no underwear,” I reminded him. “It was the English who made you put on the shorts underneath, as you no doubt recall. And after the referendum, everybody who can should speak nothing but Scots Gaelic from then on, and Scotland should put up bi-lingual public signage everywhere, just like they have in French Canada, but with the streets, place names, warnings, traffic instructions and everything else in Gaelic and English.”
“No doubt about it,” Dundee agreed, “that would be a great for morale. Too bad only one percent of the population of Scotland actually speaks Gaelic, though.”
“That would definitely increase,” I assured him, “if there were bi-lingual signage all over the place. For example, look how many Anglos here in the United States are learning Spanish simply by virtue of having everything posted in both Spanish and English. Are there really any white Americans left who don’t know what ‘Piso Mjado,’ ‘Alto Voltaje,’ ‘Peligo – No Fumar,’ ‘Salida de Emergencia,’ ‘Lavese los Manos,’ or ‘Aviso – Todas las Actividades Son Vigiladas por Camara de Video’ mean?”
“I guess Gaelic signs might have a similar effect,” Dundee agreed. “Just so long as they leave the English up there. Otherwise everyone from Solway Firth to Lerwick is going to get hopelessly lost.”
“Not if they have a Scots Gaelic-enabled Tomtom,” I pointed out.
“I don’t know about that,” Dundee responded with a doubtful shake of his head. “Last year, we had a visitor from Scotland who delivered an entire lecture on independence to an ASIS dinner completely in Scots Gaelic. Sure, everybody applauded at the end, but he could have been regaling us with tales of his extreme admiration for the House of Windsor for all I could tell.”
“The thing to do,” I advised, “is get the Scottish Identity ball rolling right away, on Day One, and keep it rolling until at least seventy-five percent of the Scottish population is bi-lingual in Gaelic and English. The goal should be that when a person gets off their international flight at Edinburgh Airport in 2034, all the Scots they see will be wearing tartan kilts and speaking Gaelic.”
Dundee shook his head uncertainly. “Isn’t that a bit… extreme?”
“Not if Scotland wants to be economically solvent in 2034,” I clarified, “because the only effective bridge to economic independence is going to be a massive increase in the tourist trade.”
“Tourism?” Dundee gasped. “Isn’t that somewhat… frivolous, economically speaking, I mean, of course?
“It’s the only thing Scotland can bring on line immediately that’s sufficiently profitable to get it through the period of massive negative economic impacts which will inevitably follow independence,” I explained. “Scotland will have to become as exotic as Kathmandu, as mysterious as Machu Picchu, as colorful as Rio de Janeiro, as adventurous as the Serengeti, as fascinating as the Giza Plateau, as alluring as Monte Carlo, as sexy as Hollywood and more fun than Disney World. And it has to do so more or less overnight, and make sure the world knows about it.”
“But… but… what about… you know… Scottish food?” Dundee fretted.
“Oh yeah… that!” I dryly replied. “They are definitely going to have to do something about the food. I’d suggest they go back and research Scotland’s extensive historical relationship with France and invent… shall we say… ‘nouvelle cuisine écossaise?’ They’re going to need to get a whole kitchen full of internationally recognized celebrity chefs working night and day inventing recipes for that, and not only ones that require expensive restaurant equipment and techniques, either. They’re going to need recipes that even roadhouses and food trucks can provide to hungry tourists. Beef, mutton, venison, grouse and oats are going to have to perform like they never have before, and any recipe based on an original that can be traced back before the Jacobite Rebellion should receive a thousand Scone award.”
“A what?” Dundee asked, discreetly using this right pinky finger to check his ear for wax. “Did you say ‘a thousand scone award?’”
“You don’t think England will take kindly to Scotland’s use of the Pound Sterling, now do you?” I replied.
“No I suppose not,” Dundee admitted. “After all, while if Scotland’s economy collapsed, England could bail it out, if England’s did, Scotland couldn’t.”
“So Scotland can forget about continuing to use the British Pound,” I opined, “and Scotland would want to avoid getting involved in the Euro, too, what with all those needy Eastern and Southern European countries like Slovenia and Greece mixed up with it.”
“Good arguments, no doubt,” he conceded, “but replace the Pound and Euro with… a quick-bread biscuit?”
“What Scotland will need,” I insisted, “is its own currency. I suggest it be called the Scottish Scone, named after clach-na-cinneamhain, the famous Stone of Scone, used in the coronation of legendary Scottish kings.”
“And this… Scone,” Dundee continued, “will be backed by what?”
“By the full faith and credit of the Scottish government,” I said, “same as our Federal Reserve Notes here in America are backed by the full faith and credit of United States government. To keep things simple, on the first day of the currency conversion, the value of a Scottish Scone should equal that of a British Pound. So, if someone had ten thousand Pounds in the Bank of Scotland on Monday night, then on Tuesday morning, they would have ten thousand Scottish Scones instead.”
“And they’ll have eight thousand one hundred forty-three Pounds worth of Scones two hours later,” Dundee speculated, “after the international currency markets get started on them.”
“Or twelve thousand nine hundred and eleven Pounds worth of Scones three hours later,” I countered, “depending on how solid the Scottish government and the Scottish people make their economy prior to the conversion from Pounds to Scones. It’s going to be up the the Scots themselves to make the Scone more valuable than the Pound.”
“Divide up the North Sea oil by geography,” Dundee pointed out, “and Scotland gets ninety-five percent. If anything could make a Scottish national currency stronger than the British Pound, that would be it!”
“But divide that oil up between Scotland and what would be left of the United Kingdom by population,” I noted, “then Scotland gets eight percent.”
Dundee scowled sourly. “Fifty-fifty then. Half the oil for Scotland and half for the UK.”
“Look out there,” I said as I pointed to the picture window behind the couch. “What do you see?”
“A magnificent view of Washington, featuring the White House,” he replied.
“See any flocks of pigs flying by?” I asked.
“What?” Dundee stammered. “Flocks… of pigs? Flying by?”
“You’ll have to be seeing one of those before the UK will give Scotland half of the oil in the North Sea,” I explained.
“Oh,” Dundee frowned. “Maybe twenty-five percent would make our currency as strong as the Pound, though.”
“The real number,” I revealed, “is closer to thirty-five. And I suggest the Scots hold out for that. Scotland will, after all, be in control of almost all of the United Kingdom’s nuclear weapons.”
“You’re suggesting… blackmail?” Dundee wondered.
“The Scots should call it a quid pro quo,” I recommended. “Remember, the Scots don’t have much to bargain with besides oil and nukes, and Scotland will need that oil revenue desperately.”
“Not necessarily,” Dundee objected, “Scotland could revive heavy industry. Coal mining…”
“A nineteenth century fuel,” I interjected, “with a gigantic carbon footprint, massive sulfur and nitrogen pollution potential and the biggest threat to particulate air quality in existence. Besides, there’s no way Scottish coal miners can compete with the Chinese, their labor costs are one tenth that of the Scots. If Scotland revives its coal industry, the only way that industry will be able to survive in the world market will be with massive government subsidies.”
“All right then,” Dundee huffed, “Scotland will revive its steel industry!”
“Use of the word ‘revive’ indicates the patient is still alive,” I reminded him. “And with respect to the Scottish steel industry, that’s quite a stretch of the imagination. Furthermore, even if, by some miracle, Scotland could talk an international corporation – like Tata, for instance – into sinking billions of Dollars, Euros or Pounds into building new, efficient, technologically up to date steel mills in Glasgow or similar locations, Scotland could not possibly compete with the Japanese, Koreans, the Russians, the Indians – even the Germans. The fact is, the world economy needs more steel production capacity like a fish needs a bicycle. As my Italian-American relatives in New York City would say, forget about it.”
“Shipbuilding?” Dundee whimpered.
“Same story there,” I let him know. “China, South Korea and Japan already have ninety-four percent of the annual gross tonnage production. There’s no solution to establish Scottish market share that wouldn’t emulate the massive government subsidies those three countries put behind their shipbuilding industries, and even if that were philosophically palatable to the Scots, which I doubt, an independent Scotland simply couldn’t afford it, unless Scotland actually got that theoretical ninety-five percent of the North Sea oil.”
“Electronics, then!” Dundee proclaimed. “The Silicon Glen! Scotland already makes over a quarter of the PCs and thirty percent of the notebook computers in the EU!”
“Which works out,” I commented, “to about five percent of the world market. And an independent Scotland would be up against a roster of the usual suspects – China, Japan, Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, even Vietnam.”
“That’s hardware,” Dundee persisted. “What about software?”
“Unless the average Scot is willing to write Java and XML at the same wages as an Indian in Mumbai,” I responded, “the fact that he is working in an independent Scotland counts for nothing at all.”
A long silence ensued as Dundee contemplated the hand woven antique silk Persian rug. “At least we still have salmon and whiskey.”
“Excellent before the soup and salad,” I admitted, “but hardly the basis of a thriving national economy. After all, the thing that distinguishes Scottish salmon and scotch whiskey in the market is their relative rarity. Therefore, there’s a limit to how many jobs those industries can create.”
“You know, Tom,” Dundee glumly relented, “I’m beginning to suspect you’re right – the only way an independent Scotland can survive its first twenty years will probably be through turning itself into a great big theme park and coaxing hordes of tourists to come traipsing all over the place and gawk at the quaint, bonnie Scots. And thinking of that, something rather dark and dour just occurred to me.”
“Which is?” I queried.
“The prospect of wearing a kilt,” he declared, “is not nearly as appealing if you are obliged to do so.”
“Is it possible,” I wondered, “that the cause of Scottish Independence, in the final analysis, will be an excellent example of the adage, ‘Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it?’”
At that, Dundee hung his head, face-palmed and softly moaned, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft agley.”