In case you missed it, the upcoming Weegie Commonwealth Games Opening Ceremony ran into a wee bit of controversy recently. Obviously, we in Caledonia were never going have anything like the same amount of money as the reactionary Westminster junta gave to the 2012 Olympic Games. A classic example of our being starved of proper funding by the English oppressor.
We were having to make do with a miserly £14m out of the pittance which the UK Government grudgingly doles out to us. Our Great Leader has now managed to increase that to £21m, presumably by cutting back on his utterly justifiable and reasonable expenses at great personal sacrifice.
Anyhow, with such a tight budget, the Organising Committee came up with a cunning plan to save on fireworks. They decided to incorporate the live demolition of some of the high rise Council flats which were such a source of civic pride to Glasgow when they were built in the 1960’s. The organisers thought it was a truly ‘gallus’ idea and it was welcomed by the SNP Minister for Sport and by the Great Deputy Leaderene, the Blessed Nicola Sturgeon.
Not any more they don’t. The plan has been pulled as a result of public protest and the Great Leader has performed his usual smooth U-turn on the proposed demolition. I have to say that I am with the protesters on this one. It was a truly crass idea.
As were the high rise flats themselves. Yet another failed Socialist experiment. Well-intentioned no doubt but just wrong
Some visionaries said this at the time. The children of the tenements which the flats replaced were used to their mothers throwing down their pieces to them so that they would not have to run upstairs from playing in the street to get them. They realised that this would be a lot more difficult in said high rise flats and a protest song was penned.
The Jeelie Piece Song (Skyscraper Wean)
I’m a skyscraper wean, I live on the nineteenth flair,
But I’m no gaun oot to play ony mair,
Since we moved to Castlemilk, I’m wasting away,
‘Cause I’m getting one less meal every day.
O ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty-story flat,
Seven-hundred hungry weans will testify to that,
If it’s butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is plain or pan,
The odds against it reaching earth and ninety-nine to one.
On the first day my maw flung out a piece o’ Hovis brown.
It came skyting oot the winda and went up insteid o’ doon,
But every twenty-seven hours it comes back into sight,
‘Cause my piece went into orbit and became a satellite.
One the second day my maw flung me a piece oot once again.
It went and hit the pilot in a fast, low-flying plane.
He scraped it off his goggles, shouting through the intercom:
`The Clydeside Reds have got me wi’ a breid-and-jeely bomb!’
One the third day my maw thought she would try another throw.
The Salvation Army band was staunin’ doon below.
`ONWARD, CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS’ was the piece they should have played,
But the oompah-man was playing a piece-on-marmalade.
We’ve wrote away tae Oxfam to try and get some aid,
And a’ the weans in Castlemilk have formed a “Piece” brigade;
We’re going to march to George’s Square, demanding civil rights,
Like `Nae Mair Hooses Over Piece-Flinging Height!’