The big chill of the last of the Mohicans
Lander, Wyoming – 6 October 2008
It’s pointless, Donald.
You’ve always been convinced that there is absolutely nothing worth seeing or discovering outside Scotland. Or rather, outside Dundee and its moors, the river where you skip stones when you’re in the mood for some kind of intellectual activity, cartoons, Father McPershing’s Sunday sermons, which you listen to with the attention level of a whore miles from redemption, that ridiculous kilt of yours and – how could I forget? – the pub. Telling you you’re wrong is pointless. It would be like trying to convince you that you can’t chew water … but perhaps you can’t grasp that either.
There’s a whole world out there, Donald, just outside that pub and its walls encrusted with mildew and ennui, not far from the foamy head on your beer and all that pipe smoke. Dammit, there’s a world that has more than just fog, a rare and pallid sun, and virtually constant rain. I’ve talked to you about it thousands of times, vainly trying to get you out of a place where you’ve turned into a insignificant part of the street furniture. Yet you, my childhood friend, have seen me leave thousands of times, and thousands of times you’ve said goodbye to me with your inevitable lie:
- next time I’ll come with you
and its unbearable follow-up:
- see you when you get back
Let me be clear on this. I’m leaving you to the cartoons and Father McPershing and his Sunday sermons, because there’s a limit to even the worst defeat.
See you when I get back.