top of page
  • Writer's picture738

(3) Burtiqali

<<Correspondence starts>> “When Nixon drank he said things that were so paranoid that his aides refused to ever discuss them; and Nixon was right at the heart of power—or thought he was, anyway. So, if you think what I say sounds strange, understand that presidents and prime ministers—people who have really been there—would know where I’m coming from; though I wouldn’t expect Nixon to acknowledge it with more than a nod—diplomatic to the last.

Item: Greyfriars Bobby, a little dog that guarded his master’s grave until he himself died—‘a wee little dog’, as the Scots say. You can go and look at the statue in Edinburgh, and then, perhaps, repair to an elephant-themed tearoom where JK Rowling—‘noted transphobe and bigot’—allegedly composed Harry Potter under the cosh of single-motherhood. Item: news reports say that Greyfriars Bobby was not, repeat not, a Skye Terrier—researchers say ‘he was a different breed’. You were mistaken—tradition is mistaken, the statue is mistaken. Article is accompanied by a pix of a golden terrier and a black terrier. Do you see where I’m going with this yet? (Nixon does).

You know where this is going: it was always a different breed—it was really a black dog. Look, there are ads at the station with a mummy chicken and a daddy chicken and a little chick—and they are on their rail-based adventures. The black rooster: you realise that, semiotically, the chicken family is a mixed-race family—and you know because usually a rooster is depicted as a light tan colour, although there are black roosters this is the semiotic exception. The railway posters subliminally promote mixed-race relationships. The Greyfriars Bobby story is to prime people for the ‘discovery’ that the Scots were really black Africans—as already hinted at by misrepresented genetic research several years ago. They were always a different breed. ‘Um, Mr. President, are you alright, is everything alright?’ ‘I’m fine, son—just the jet-lag and sleeping pills.’”


Recent Posts

See All


I enter Westminster Abbey accompanied by two former prostitutes, three pub landlords and a gaggle of their regulars, a redundant tax inspector, and twelve Cornish fishermen I recruited during my sojou

Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page