“Compassion and mercy are about upholding the beliefs that we seek to live by, remaining true to our values as a people. No matter the severity of the provocation or the atrocity perpetrated.”
—Kenny MacAskill, Scottish Justice Minister, on the release of Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi, August 2009
STATEMENT BY KENNY MACASKILL ON BEHALF OF THE SCOTTISH TOURIST BOARD
If you’ve just been diagnosed with three months to live, you’re probably thinking, Great, that’s my dream of becoming an international criminal-overlord well and truly down the crapper. And as if you need a second reason to be “all huffy.” Life! Look, I know how you’re feeling, and I sympathise. Really I do. That’s why it’s my privilege to offer what I’ve coined the “Mafioso Vacation.” Frankly, it’s pretty much like a regular vacation, except for the bits when you get to hit people with a heavy baseball bat and use cool bad-ass words such as “wallop” and “noggin-thwacked.”
I can hear you now, “Hang on kilt boy. Sure, I’d love to be known as Mr. Thwack-tastic. But get real. I’ve got enough on my plate without the worry of prison.” Well, here’s the cool thing. My Scottish humanity recognises that your plate is more than a little full at the moment. That’s why I’m giving you the chance to live out your maniacal dreams, and, in return, you’ll receive plenty of compassion without the threat of something those draconian right-wing extremists call “punishment.” You might be cold and heartless, but I’m not going to sink to your no-compassion-showing criminal ways by dishing out something as outmoded as justice. If you enjoy tickling neurotic Mormons with bags of nutmeg shavings, go for it! Who needs a bunch of dictators spewing out emotive buzzwords such as “harassment” and “weirdo”? Scotland is nothing like that lowlife Uncle Sam, or indeed any of my lowlife relatives—including Angus, who’s banned from stepping within three-foot of an unwashed haggis following what can only be described as “an incident.”
Of course, there are limits to Scottish tolerance, but provided you don’t take the mick we can live with it. Stick to minor crimes such as petty theft, slightly breaking the speed limit, or killing a few hundred people and you’ll be fine. Go crazy. Really, go super crazy; you deserve to; you’re ill, and that’s the Big Guy’s way of telling me that you’ve been punished enough. I’m not sticking my nose into a Higher Power’s business. In fact, you can probably get away with knocking-off up to four hundred people before I’ll even look a bit miffed and raise my eyebrows in a Roger Moore sort of way. Hey, make it five hundred—I want to keep my forehead looking oh so silky-smooth.
Besides, if someone is conceited enough to get a job and pay his taxes then, heck, that arrogant “I’ve got a job bragger” deserves a little love-tap from “The Thwack-meister.” Once you’re terminally ill you’ve earned the right to loosen up a bit. Why the hell should you have your life ruined by obeying stuffy laws and worrying about a proper punishment should you break them? If you want to hurl a heavy frozen marrow from the top of a high building, be my guest. You never know, people may just think they’re being mugged by a psychotic green alien from the planet Vegetable. Cool! Who cares about the consequences. This is YOUR time. And anyway, what grieving relative hasn’t dreamt of saying, “Who’d have thought it. A free-falling fifty-pound frozen marrow.” Everyone benefits.
Scottish values are similar to when you read about a shark that’s eaten a bunch of people and then someone nicknames it Bambi. And you’re like, “Well, I know the whole eating people thing was kind of a bummer, but, hey-ho, such a cutesy name. Go on, away with ya—you adorable little man-eating scamp.” In fact, it’s probably nothing like that at all unless the shark has a prostate problem. Hey, Uncle Angus, do sharks have prostates? And Angus, get your damn marrow out of my freezer.
Of course, Scotland isn’t a total scumbags’ free-for-all. We’re not, like, all-out twisted sickos. I mean, the government doesn’t want every jailbird in the world writing to it with a sob story and begging for a transfer. Don’t write once, let alone three hundred times. Yes, I’m talking to YOU Mr. B. Madoff of the U.S.A. Consider this your reply and photocopy it, oh, let’s say, three hundred times. Eyebrows raised.