I went to Edinburgh for a dirty weekend once. It was a birthday treat from my then girlfriend. I insisted we copulated in as many places as we could get away with including on top of Arthur's Seat. We were disturbed by old people. Anyway, I'm digressing. Walking along the High Street, I felt like a god. Both my eyes work and track simultaneously, there are no lesions on my skin, I don't look like the blood vessels in my face are going to explode, I don't have a hairy forehead, I have a full compliment of fingers and toes and my BMI is not in triple digits. It was as if I had been crafted by the Lord himself and sent to walk amongst the Scots. I could see them enviously looking at me for tell-tale flaws, but they knew I was an Englishman. I didn't have a limp and my clothes weren't urine stained. Some of them tried to cover their repugnant form in shame and scuttled back into the nearest McDonalds for fear I might judge them. But judge them I had. They are an accursed race of people that come together only to drink, f*ck and do the national lottery. The days are short and the nights long in Scotland, and its just as well.