WARNING: DAFT POST: Serious readers should avoid.
I stand, above, with my foot half-in in the sacred, foot-shaped, hollow in the ancient hillfort capital of the Scots/Gaels, Dunadd, Argyll but, like one of the ugly sisters, my plates of meat are too big.
Nevertheless, after consulting the PM, at that moment, last Saturday, I became High Chieftain and King of the Scots/Gaels and, of course, any migrants making their home here, as per the words of my First Minister.
Oh, yes, and the English-born too! Even Essex!
I claim this title on the basis of putting my foot in it, with my wife as witness, but also on my lineage. After swabbing both my cheeks (mouth!) a few years ago and sending the swab to some research lab, I received a certificate revealing that my selfish wee genes are identical to those of 99% of males on the West coast of Ireland and on the North coast of what is now the Basque territory in Spain.
I told my wife I was clearly a Basque. She shook her head wearily and said she knew that.
This means that I am now, like many demented North Americans, a direct male descendant of Kenneth I MacAlpin (Cináed mac Ailpín) first king of Scots in 843AD and of size 9 in shoes like me. In that line, there are thousands, thousands, of other ancestors and kin, including Rab C Nesbit, Andrew Neil and several women from Jamaica and England but I’m ignoring all that and keeping my eye on the orb.
Talking of spherical objects, my dad was the spit of John Robertson, Notts Forest and European Cup Winner, and even more so, Hugh Robertson, of Dundee and Dunfermline AFC, scorer in that team first to defeat the Lisbon Lions in 1968. All four of us chubby left-wingers.
What more proof do you need?