The Greatest Love-Bomber Of All

Mr Cameron addresses three-quarters of the nation.

People of England, Wales and Northern Ireland!

Scotland!  Stop pulling that face.  This is about you, but it’s not for you.  Daddy’s speaking to the other children now.  Don’t interrupt.  Why?  Because it’s rude.  Look, I don’t care if that IS what Evan Davis does on the Today programme.  Evan is a big boy, so he knows when he needs to step in to stop you embarrassing yourself. 

Sorry, everyone, I’m afraid Scotland is a bit tired and crabby this morning.  Must have had a little too much Irn Bru last night.  (Pause while acolytes hold up signs saying “LAUGH NOW”.)  Anyway, we have lots to talk about, so let’s ignore their high-pitched whining and get on.

Look around you at this magnificent Olympic park.  Isn’t it a splendid example of what we can achieve as a united British people?  It doesn’t matter in what corner of these islands you were born, or whether you can afford the outrageous train fares to get here.  You still had the honour of paying through your taxes for these splendid facilities, which the people of London and its burgeoning tourist industry will enjoy for decades to come. 

That’s why the warmth of our gratitude, which is a thousand times more valuable than money, will always be radiating outwards from the M25 to wherever it is you people live.  But as well as gratitude, there’s glory, with the memory of our Team GB competitors kicking the arse of the world, really sticking it to those bastards in the G20 who said we were just a titchy offshore island with delusions of grandeur.

But it’s not simply about the winning;  it’s about the red, white and blue.  Blue is in my blood, so can you imagine how it would feel to have that drained out of our flag?  The French would never let me hear the end of it, Obama’s flunkies would simply put the phone down instead of putting me on hold, and Vladimir would taunt me about the flag going pink in the wash.

Think of our connections with each other.  The UK is an intricate trap… I mean, tapestry.  Look at me:  I have West Highland Cameron ancestors, but I’m also the 5th cousin of the Queen. The name Cameron may mean “crooked nose”, but my forebears had good enough spin doctors to fix that.  They coined the family motto “Let Us Unite”, a useful rallying cry in 1707 when the overwhelming mandate of the privileged brought Scotland into England’s embrace.

We can’t unpick institutions and infrastructure that have grown up together.  Can you imagine how Scottish supermarkets would suffer if lorries had to queue for hours at border posts we’d erected for no discernible reason?  What about the chaos if Scotland had a different legal system?  Or a different tax regime?  I don’t know how the Europeans manage, not that that will matter a jot after 2017.

Our prosperity, which from personal experience I can tell you is very real, even though invisible in your own daily lives, depends on sticking together.  We have a long term economic plan -  no, a vision, though I’m sure George hasn’t done drugs since college -  for Britain to be innovating, creating and shovelling the proceeds down our banker pals’ throats until the sun goes nova.  Without access to Scottish resources, George and I could find ourselves getting boiled in oil, in a nice ironic touch, at the next Bilderberg conference.  

Our armed forces?  Finest in the world, though Philip Hammond is working on that.  Our shipyards?  Thanks for taking one for the team there, Portsmouth.  But it’s not just about national vanity, although obviously that’s mostly it. 

We’re also the soft-power super-power, a crucible of creativity that produced Emeli Sande, whose CDs the people of Kazakhstan would chuck on a massive bonfire if they discovered she was Scottish and not North British.  And what about Sherlock, whom Conan Doyle would have been too poor and stupid to create if the country had just stopped at Hadrian’s Wall?  (Is that where the border really is, Tristan?  Can someone check before the speech?)

Then there’s the BBC, whose reputation for fairness and impartiality goes without saying.  More and more frequently, as it happens.  But Aung San Suu Kyi was a fan, so that’s the moral high ground secured against annoying questions.  (Tristan, can we leave out the part about her bopping along to the DLT Show?) 

This is a country where, if we see someone who’s sick, or has lost their job, we don’t just walk on by.  We kick them in the nuts, get them evicted from their home and say it’s all their fault.  Let’s keep speaking out for these values together, filling the gaps with “la la la” if we must, to shut out any dissenting voices pointing out the immense moral vacuum at their heart.

We are the pride and hope for the world.  Think of the British ships, named after different parts of the UK, sailing to the Falklands to protect the then-popular principle of self-determination.  Think of how, in 1964, Nelson Mandela, even though he was at that time a terrorist, delivered a moving speech in court about his respect for British institutions such as Parliament.  Can you imagine? Unlike the Jocks, he had no place to air his grievances!  Whereas we gave the SNP at least 10 minutes yesterday to make themselves heard above the heckling, and some unelected peers as long as they liked recently to explain why the very idea of independence was pants.

My favourite book when I was growing up was Our Island Story, which may be sub-titled A Child’s History of England, but also contains several compelling paragraphs about the provinces.  I want to give it to my three children so that they, too, can pee their pants with laughter about the gigantic con we’re… I’m sorry, I’ll read that again.  Britain is our family home, which we built brick by brick through brave buccaneering belligerent blustering brash brawny brilliance.  I couldn’t bear to see it torn apart, and to prevent that I’ll fight with everything I have, except my debating skills.

So let the message ring out, from Manchester to Motherwell (Tristan, is that where we shut down those steelworks?), from Pembrokeshire to Perth (shooting and fishing country, we’re on firm ground there), from Belfast to (crap, can’t think of anything!  Will they notice if I just say Brigadoon?  Oh, wait a minute, there’s an earl of…of…where is it?) BUTE, from us to the people of Scotland:  we want you to stay!  Please please please!  Don’t go breaking our hearts!

Alternatively, let us have all the oil, then you can bugger off.