Ladies and gentlemen, let’s talk about the family.
First, you’ve got the Welsh. Even the Irish feel sorry for the Welsh. And as much as the Irish can feel sorry for anybody, eventually enough alcohol gets involved that nobody gives two fucks. The Irish have that particular problem very well covered.
Then you’ve got the Scots.
The Scots are the cousin who hears somebody say, “That’s ours,” and immediately responds:
“Funny. My ancestors said the same thing. Then your ancestors showed up.”
The Scots have spent so much time defending hills, castles, and sheep that half their national history sounds like an argument that simply got out of hand and lasted several centuries.
Then we get to the Americans.
The British still occasionally look at America and think:
“That’s our colony.”
To which America responds:
“And that’s why we don’t let you hold the receipt.”
Of course, the Dutch are standing in the background saying:
“Excuse us, but we were here too.”
And the Spanish are trying to explain how an Italian sailor working for Spain got lost looking for Asia and somehow turned that into several hundred years of world history.
Then we move on to Australia.
Britain looked at a continent filled with deserts, crocodiles, sharks, venomous snakes, venomous spiders, and wildlife that appears to have been designed by an angry committee and said:
“Perfect. Let’s send the prisoners there.”
And the Australians looked around and replied:
“Right. We’ll build a country.”
Meanwhile New Zealand spends half its existence reminding people:
“We’re not Australia.”
The rest of the world responds:
“Which one has the kangaroos again?”
And New Zealand collectively sighs.
Then there are all the other places touched by the British Empire: India, Jamaica, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and countless others.
The British arrive.
“We’re here to improve things.”
A century later the locals reply:
“Thank you. The exit is that way.”
Yet somehow everyone still ended up speaking enough English to continue arguing about it.
And that’s the strange thing about the whole family.
The English complain about the Americans.
The Americans complain about the British.
The Irish complain about everybody.
The Scots complain professionally.
The Australians insult everyone equally.
The Canadians apologize for things they didn’t do.
The New Zealanders are still trying to get themselves added to maps.
And nobody gets along.
But the second an outsider shows up and starts picking on one of them, everybody suddenly closes ranks and says:
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
“That’s our idiot.”
Which brings us back to Scotland, because Scotland gave us golf.
Think about golf.
A game measured in strokes.
Filled with hazards.
Traps.
Bunkers.
Rough terrain.
Water.
Wind.
And frustration.
At which point you realize the Scots may have accidentally invented a sport that sounds suspiciously like both a battlefield and a medical emergency.
“How was your round?”
“I had several strokes, spent time in a bunker, got trapped in the rough, nearly drowned, and lost a small fortune.”
“Golf?”
“Golf.”
And when you think about it, those same words also seem to describe large portions of Scottish military history.
“Welcome to Scotland.”
“Am I on a golf course?”
“Maybe.”
“Or a battlefield?”
“Depends how your day goes.”
Thank you, good night, and if any Scots are offended by this, just remember: the English started it.
P.S. If you’re wondering why I didn’t get into the rest of Europe, particularly the French, it’s probably because they looked at the situation the same way any relative at a family reunion would.
They took one look at the English, Scots, Irish, Americans, Australians, Canadians, New Zealanders, and everybody else arguing over things that happened somewhere between 1066 and yesterday afternoon and thought:
“Wait a minute. I’ve seen this shit before.”
At which point the smartest move is to stay over here, nod politely, enjoy your drink, and hope a chair doesn’t get thrown in your direction.
Some family traditions are best observed from a safe distance.