The Scottish Proletariat have been the unwitting target of historical vulgarization despite their being the most ardent and loyal supporters of the smart-cunt ideal of Scotia. Historians furrow their brows and knead their beady eyes in faux-abjection at the countless losses inflicted upon the Down-and-Outs in Bathgate during the Great War[s] yet they lack the self-reflexivity necessary to be able gaze upon the cruel abnegation of the demobilized pals [sic] battalions. These losses were either the virginal lamb sacrificed at the altar of capital or a tragic accident with no outstanding reason other than rotten luck and/or poor timing. Big Dougie’s genocide of the Proletariat is beyond compare in terms of ruthless modern efficiency and subsequent ideological un/veiling. So they wear poppies with pride, all the while ignorant of the paradoxical referent[s] pinned upon their breast; the pissing on the Passchendaele dead combined with the upkeep of an opulent stately home overlooking the Forth Estuary. Every Winter the Haig dynasty wrings its hands in greedy anticipation at the kind donations made by an unwitting Josie Public.
It is not enough for Billy Bourgeois that Jimmy fi’ Drylaw [ya cunt] uncritically infuses his wiry frame with the indelible totems of diktat heritage thereby sealing his thraldom to noble elites. It is not enough that Jimmy, by virtue of his ardent morality, would lay down kith and kin for the petite ideal of Bonnie Caledonia. For overlong we have allowed this exclusive clique of white Scots[men] to impregnate our vulnerable psyche with the most frightful tales of descriptive emulation all whilst they obtain jouissance in oak-clad reading rooms at our heedless regurgitation and embodied veneration of their self-indulgent facts. These facts [sic] have no application out-with the institutional matrix which successively reproduces their in/validity. They are not accepted as fact out-with a rigorously policed discourse which takes a vested [though not necessarily objective] interest in the discursive regulation of fact.
We must now anticipate the apologist argument [in true paranoiac smart-cunt style]. With broad brushstrokes we have described the conditions of possibility ascribed to all institutional narratives and have outlined a hollow tautology [e.g. facts about Thatcherism are neither equivalent nor analogous to facts about Hapsburg intermarriage] masquerading as critical insight [an epistemic rupture between academic theory and material reality] which is far from earth-shattering. So then we have [seemingly] taken a fact [sic] out of context and like the small child we have placed a square block in the round w/hole. It appears we require the maternal embrace of Scottish History to reassure our paranoiac-anxiety and to take the square block out of our hands, showing us it fits in the square w/hole and not into the round w/hole. It is through the metaphorical act of gazing upon m/other’s placing of the square block into the square w/hole that we obtain our sense of the Big I-Am. It is through seeing the mirrored reflection of vicarious jouissance in the gaze of m/other and desiring, craving that gleaming spark of loving recognition in h/er gaze that we learn to become clever little smart-cunts who mind our P’s and Q’s. We are becoming the ultimate arbiters and watchful gatekeepers over our own self-castigating thraldom to the omnipresent gaze of surrogate m/other. Heaven forbid the poor child who persists in the delusion that the square block does indeed fit into the round w/hole. Like our irregular comrades, these silly children become damaged unlovable rouges indelibly branded with the [institutional] mark of Cain the slayer [of un/reason]. The child incurs the displaced abjection of m/other. The child will never be a smart-cunt.
We ought to look closely at those we dis/trust to reproduce our collective heritage since it is their petite insecurities and un-cathected wet dreams which we uncritically venerate as fact. This necessarily begs the question: What of the Historian and what of their facts? The Historian is a petite of the lowest order with obvious libidinal investments in the reproduction of Scotland. [His] discursive positions [how he perceives his space, race, times etc] are [though not always for reasons outlined below] informed by [his] research interests. The Historian uses [his] research as an exercise in self-indulgent jouissance. Such is the case of The Rural Historian whom vicariously [and guiltily] longs to the point of melancholic grief over the loss of [his] maternal-feudal [childhood] jouissance through groundbreaking [sic] work on crop rotation in West Highland settlements under Donald Dubh c.1540: Such is the case of the Catholic educated Historian whom self-deprecates all over [his] fealty to Protestant ritualism within Bigtown University through subliminal work into the righteousness of the Stuart Pretender. He imagines his-self as a Crusader. A desk-bound Richard the Lionheart.
Leaving aside the peculiar psychoanalytics of the Historical smart-cunt for another day, we see [he] is in fact a haunted figure beset by intangible distance from that which is Actually happening as well as that which may very well Probably happen. In face of these seemingly hostile threats to [his] ego-unity, which [he] sees every-where and no-where, the historian busies [himself] with total description [an archaeology of all known facts extant within a temporal space], or/and petty quibbling about this or that niche sub-field [i.e. crop rotation under Donald Dubh]. It is worth bearing in mind we keep a further avenue in reserve for the time being viz. the amateur historian. This subliminal standpoint is at sixes and sevens with itself hence its flagrant disregard for empirical validity and consequent suppression of out/with-with/out critique. We demand the reader shudder in orgasmic jouissance over whether one Scottish Merk equated to either two-thirds or one-fifth of an English Pound Sterling in 1613.
Of course, the [imagined] apologist will hasten to amend the above proposition by privilege-wanking over the petite ideals of unfettered scholarship and so-called enlightenment. This is their pathetic attempt at excusing their comfortable life @IKEA; a life supported by academic wage slavery. The materialist will ask: Does whether the relative [speculative] values of a long dead currency merit investment of labour and capital? The reactive fancy of the petite mouths a resounding YES! Scholarship should be pursued free of fetter and irrespective of perceived utility. Their arguments [as we have seen] mask privilege since we are to assume nary a historian has ever been tempted to coquette with the seductive Medusa of ideology and that scholarship is self-dis/interested. Pish.
A fact is discovered, be it a piece of pottery or an ecclesiastical document attesting to the chastity of Margaret of Norway, it is gazed at, longingly, lovingly, until eventually [by any means necessary] it marches to the monotone drum-beat of teleology [see below]. Every fact has its place; every place has a fact. This place is Divine and the fact is an esoteric force imbued with Holy power. We are certain Fergus Mor was the first King of Scots to the extent we canonize the fact and rebuke those who speak their vile heresy against it; indeed, very little distinguishes the burning of heretics at the stake and the imposed institutional abjection forced upon children who must persist in putting that fucking square block in that bastard round hole. The child [likewise the heretic] must be ritually exorcised and clinically eviscerated by The Professionals. It must be normalized at all costs. M/other has failed the child. It must find a surrogate institutional m/other.
Historical facts are devoid of meaning outwith the policed boundaries of the discourse that gave birth to them. This much is clear yet it still gets us no further than the epistemic standpoint we are so eager to rip to shreds. Let us begin anew. Scottish History is the socially constructed residue left behind by successive generations of fact-emulation. So then; very little distinguishes the production of this fact from the production of that fact and it therefore follows that this self/same precept also applies to the intrepid smart-cunt who makes this or indeed that fact. By our harsh standards, however, the historical smart-cunt is less intrepid more insipid. Like all smart-cunts, the Historian is deathly afraid of the m/other superior. The Psychoanalytic-Cixousian His-Story of Scotland merits a self-contained work; for the moment [and in lieu of a proper analysis] we demand the reader name offhand, that is without sneaking a peek at Google, a female Scottish historian, either past or present. Scottish History [it seems] is a privileged discourse and it is certainly not taught to the oiks. Few polytechnics offer more than a couple of embattled academics laboriously plodding through the same 40 hour modules over-and-over until their slides curl at the edges. They are certainly not trusted by the QAA to provide accredited degree courses in History. The facts are elite and are taught to a privileged few charged with their reproduction at work, rest and play.
What follows is an embryonic attempt at outlining the principal features of the Historical episteme. We will then be in a position to see at first hand what makes the fact possible and why it is these facts are little other than descriptive emulations.
NB: History refers to Scottish History. No claims are made about Danish His-Stories and one cares not one jot whether or not you consider this a flat-ontology [sic] with-out validity in your leafy Berkshire Suburb.
Scottish History does not adhere to a non-linear trajectory amenable to the Real forces of rupture, motion and volatility. Whilst it may exude the restful appearance of definite certainty and progressive teleology it does not furrow its brow overlong about abject psychic-material conditions in the here-and-now for these are simply the logical developmental markers en-route to some or other delusion of perfectibility. It will be all-right in The End. Such are the investments [entire lives/careers/families depend upon it] in the linear falsehood of painstaking progression toward being all-right in The End that a certain timeline become fixed, de facto, thereby rendering all Probable and Actual critique strictly taboo. The heretofore eccentric gaze of the Scholar melds as one w/hole through the gradual normalization of tertiary curricula which subsequently reproduces a standardized factual gaze. An acrid gaze that applies textbook facts to haunted bodies and demands they submit to the divine edict of the smart-cunt. Critique a pool of facts [The Clearences] within a temporal space [Modern History] and one is hung for treason [try denying the Clearences in a smart-cunt debate]. The reader is moreover dared to adorn an England football shirt whilst taking a vigorous constitution through Broomhouse this FIFA World Cup. The reader will see at first hand the xenophobic paranoia inherent within the dynamic of a third-hand understanding of teleological fact[s].
The historical field is a seductive dance of endless emulation. Once a fact is accommodated into a timeline then Probable debate is meaningless and therefore marginal. The field degenerates into sycophantic and mirrored emulation of itself. There is little point in embellishing the facts. In moments of torrid abjection, however, the historian may invert the episteme so its rancid stink eats away at what little remains of [his] ego-integrity. What is so utterly pathetic about all this is their gaze is simultaneously emulative and materialist yet cruelly distanced from the Academy. This is the oblique tragedy of the amateur historian, its most concrete manifestation, the History Teacher.
NB: The History Teacher refers to a secondary teacher. Tertiary lecturers shelter from the torrent of radical critique under the golf umbrella of the privileged smart-cunt.
The archetype is as unctuous as it is pathetic for day-after-day-after-day is spent parroting misleading facts ordained as Truth by [the amateur’s] academically brilliant cohort. The amateur teaches the facts made by [their] smart-cunt former class-mates to children and/or vulgar peasants [local his/stories/her/stories] because m/other identified their seductive allure. Chagrin at not being the smart-cunt they wanted to be is intensified [and sublimated] through wage-slavery and their alienation from decision-making which, were it not for melancholic longing for an investment in the production [and not the mere reproduction] of fact, would [eventually] yield either sweet revolutionary fruit and/or rancid psychoanalytic blight. Such petite dreams keep the delusional-aspirant smart-cunt’s oar in. A synthetic concern for past/current always distant oppression [privilege may be mentioned in lessons but always with especial reference to facts and/or distant material hyper-realities] is a thin veneer over the self-castigating white-guilt inherent within a defective gaze which is hypersensitive to the imagined demands of m/other. Unable to see the roaming for the gloaming in our liquid times the amateur regresses to the only psychic time-space they felt secure: The Academy.
The teleological timeline is historical Gospel for it is simultaneously glorified and exalted by the institutional matrix, it is therefore associated with the most abusive of privledges. This is all very well. But what does it mean in the here and now? It means the amateur is threatened by that which is radical. What does he do when under threat from bigger boys and girls? He runs to m/other. M/other taught him to check a fact. To distrust that which goes against the ebb and flow. To kick a wo/man when s/he is Down and Out in Bathgate and to hold in contempt those whom are not special little smart-cunts like him-self. M/other taught him to trust certain agencies with the provision of his facts. These agencies tell him what to get angry about and when to get angry. When Ess-Tee-Vee tells him to get angry, he gets angry and he tells his spotty smart-cunts to get angry as well.
NB: The Historian is part of a broader psychoanalytic matrix [smart-cunts]. This is not the time to give pursuit to the smart-cunt over the garden fences as they rip our Stone Island from our clothes line.
This can be a mundane as setting a plan in motion to buy a dozen eggs or as complex as designing a eugenics programme for an Aryan society. It is a recurring [and compelling] subtext to Scottish History though it should be noted in passing that considerable debate amongst the smart-cunts remains as to what this perfectible goal is or indeed was. Such dissent is especially quarrelsome to the big business of the discipline since it impels the elders to enforce the synergetic imagination. We touched upon this in the above discussion on the normalization of historical curricula as a means of creating a collective factual gaze which feeds-back into ideological reproduction. Smart-cunts who read for a Bigtown University degree in History [Anytown Poly is not a custodian of fact; it can-not be trusted with the facts] are compelled to submit to a normalized consensus of imagination; the Ultima Jimmy.
Ultima Jimmy is not a transhumanist cyborg of the kind sufficient to make an asexual futurist steampunk moist between the knees. Ultima Jimmy is a primitive communist hunter-gather bearing no uncanny resemblance to the imagined rural idyll of clanship. How frightfully original. An anguished cry for pastoral feudalism by those keen on Sunday constitutionals down Dundas Street in Barbour Hunting apparel. No matter if they have only seen the countryside on Country File. No matter if they oppose Fox Hunting despite never having seen a mange ridden fox in all its majestic élan. No matter if their direct/distant descendants were no-thing more than Flanders fertiliser. We endure their pastoral caterwauling but unlike the parasitic petite we have the good grace to pretend not to shudder in hypocrisy at their serf-like dependence on Central Belt Capital.
The paternalist veneration of the [haunted] crofter is so utterly nauseating since it shows the purblind gaze of the historical episteme in full rosy-cheeked pubescent blossom. Facts never mislead. M/other never tells porky-pies. Santa is indeed real. Jesus was more than the carpenter’s bastard step-child. It matters not how these imagined societies existed, what matters are the Real lessons which can be learned from their assumed existence? If we are to pay heed to the historical episteme then the lesson learned is self-same [i.e. this is how it should be] and always set against a sepia background of nostalgia. If only you would submit to the legitimacy of our Truth, our Facts, our Answers [and how we have laboured to provide you with them] then we would deliver you from your ghastly abjection to a promised land where you would be free from your mortal worries; a land where you would be chained to capital until you degenerate into no-thing more than an embarrassment to those who quaff from our fountain of youth. This is the manifesto of the historical episteme and the quasi-autonomous Scottish State. Teleological reasoning, in whatever rose-tainted hue it may momentarily masquerade in, is so utterly flawed. It is accursed by a retrospective episteme which in turn labours under the historical-libidinal baggage accumulated through a defective methodology of hindsight, inference and empirical delusion. It can never hope to infer what will be from what went before.
The historical episteme has scant regard for human agency. We are the kilt-clad puppets acting out the will of an invisible hand in front of a demanding audience of our betters. The hand is [at the very least] visible in the pre-modern for one can hardly avoid paying lip-service to the Decree Absolute of regal/democratic oligarchs c. 1200-1700. Perhaps it is the explicit and super-liminal compulsion ‘to do’ that is so longed for by the Historian. Like all smart-cunts, they are never happier than when being told what to do and when making infinitesimal progress to some or other abstract [often institutionalized and self-indulgent] goal. There is no scope for action or radical thought out/with and with/in these ruthlessly policed discursive frontiers; the Historian finds a loving surrogate m/other in The Books where a haunted husk of psychic-abjection and libidinal solitude seeks pure sublimation in a futile [though not entirely fruitless] quest for mini-Truth.
Just look at those so keen on their discursive reproduction; the Salmond’s; the Gray’s; the Goldie’s or the Liberal-cunt whose name eludes me. Are these individuals capable of leading our backward isle into the Tenties or are they simply the greying befuddled puppets of an otherwise militarized system of consolidated privilege, seductive manipulation and surplus extraction.
A debt is owed to the invaluable advice of North Edinburgh ‘gadgies.’
For literary description of ‘A Smart Cunt’ see Irvine Welsh’s novella.
Please refer all correspondence to your Wastepaper Bin. Nae cunt gies a fuck.