By Davy Heyboy, Our under the covers festival reporter

We have, not infrequently, indeed every bloody day, exposed the foul frothing of the racist nationalist. We apologise to our more sensitive readers, who will wince at the xenophobic rant replicated below, but honest journalism requires that the truth be told.

When challenged by an outraged press corps, the author tried to laugh it off: “This is just a wee giggle at the expense of the poor delusional nationalist moving in for a short time. No harm is meant or ill intention intended. Honest!"

BBC Scotlandshire, nor indeed Police Scotlandshire, believe this to be far from the case. Not that we're trying to influence our loyal viewers in any way whatsoever.

Our readers can judge for themselves whether an honest word has ever escaped the mouth of a Nat!

We must give one last warning of how vile this text may be to members of the public. Please consider if you have a strong enough stomach for nationalism before reading it.

When our neighbours told us they were moving out for most of August to make way for journalists reporting on the Edinburgh Fringe we weren’t particularly surprised, or bothered. This is Edinburgh and "festival lets" are commonplace for those whose properties are close enough to the town centre to make them coveted by visiting artistes, impresarios and the media hack hangers-on.

We did it ourselves once, but managed only a week. To turn your home into a rentable prospect you have to remove every trace of your family, from bagging up and hiding the clothes to taking the framed photographs of Nicola Sturgeon’s ankle aff the mantelpiece.

It’s far too much effort for too little return and things can go wrong. We came back to find our "guests" – a Radio Scotlandshire DJ and his crew – still in residence and there were words. Later, we listened to his version of events on regional radio, an episode our teenage daughters have still not forgotten, or forgiven.

Anyway, back to our neighbours. Their tenant is an infamous “married” couple (strangely with different surnames!), both of whom are journalists sent to report on the Fringe, or so they told us, and for a moment we were excited. Imagine the parties, the plotting, the shit-stirring. Imagine the deadline pressure as the typewriter clatters late into the night. No more watering the plants in the scud. No more battering the kids when the windows are open.

Then they dropped the bombshell: their names. Oh no, not them, my wife and I screamed in horrible unison, anything but that. But the deal is done and there is no escape. For the next month we will be living next door to British Nationalists. It gets worse.

Their reporting is about Scottish independence events; they are on a mission to scare the masses. They are vocal scaremongers for the other side; they are the enemy.

In Scotland [sic], with just seven weeks until the referendum, politics has become deeply personal. We might have friends who are British nationalists but they aren’t speaking to us at the moment. There was a time in Edinburgh when political persuasion was rather like religious denomination, a talking point maybe but not all defining and not divisive.

We used to entertain news personalities of every leaning, and I can recall Hogmanay gatherings where STV presenters perched on sofas with BBC political editors and Sky researchers. The coming referendum has rendered such cross-media comaraderie inconceivable and it’s hard to see the day when things will return to normal.

The two camps have dug in for the final countdown and what has long been a bitter campaign has entered its last, nasty phase. Civility is reserved for the ‘don’t knows’. We don’t belong to that group, and nor do the new folk over the fence.

So how do we play it? Pretend we are impartial, peel off the Yes Scotland [sic] stickers from the eldest’s bedroom window and take the Yes Saltire flags out of the flower pots (I said this has got serious)?

Or do we go the other way, declare war, refuse to lend them a cup of sugar, put our rubbish in their bin, shit on their doorstep, hang the Saltire duvet on the washing line and keep it there for four weeks?

I can envisage the reporters’ friends, for they surely have at least a handful, trooping in and out for bevvies on the veranda (do British Nationalists have bevvies?). Famous faces and famous Naw sympathisers, herding together in Scotland’s [sic] capital to make their desperate assault on truth and honest before September 18, could headquarter in our street.

There will be politicians among them. Good lord! A horrible thought: there could be the politician himself. Never one to pass up an opportunity for promotion, the British Nationalists’ leader would relish an invitation from his biased media loyalists and may appear in person, just beyond the party wall. We have been told that he’s coming up here for two weeks before the referendum – for the grouse shooting, and we fear he thinks we are the grousers!

As I sit at my computer I can already hear our regular neighbours taking their leave. By tonight, the couple will be installed and life in these parts may never be the same again. Wish us luck.

Meanwhile, a perfectly reputable reporter, embedded on the other side of the city for a majestic newspaper, ran a counter claim reporting on a real and true nationalist infestion.

In the article, the professional journalist poured scorn on her victims for their lack of sense of humour.

"See thae Natz", she scribbled, "Cannae tak a joke. Jist like thae fat black weemin, thut ur aye complainin when onybody has a fly wee dig at thum!"

Related Articles

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Herald : Hayman: I am the Nationalist actor attacked as 'the enemy' by the blogger next door

Telegraph : No pleasing the neighbours on eve of the Scottish vote

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