This will probably be the last update to the TC Web site for at least a fortnight. Tomorrow I am off for two weeks in America, and will likely thus be unwilling to spend time FTP-ing anything much back across the Atlantic, when I could be injecting cash into the economy of our former colony [or, at least, the parts of the economy which deal with alcohol, junk food, laser disks and lap dances].

They say that holidays are among the most stressful times of the year, up there with Christmas and the summer solstice [obscure Scottish islands ruled by Christopher Lee only], and they have a point. I’ve spent much of the past few days chasing round trying to sort out insurance, money, tickets, a haircut and travel entertainment, leading to endless paranoia about where my passport/credit card/camera was. The sooner they invent teleportation the better.

The travel entertainment is in the form of a Game Boy Pocket; I used to have the regular version of this critter, until it was hurled across the room in a fit of gladiatorial picque. The new version is slimmer, lighter and takes smaller batteries — which conveniently can be found in the stationery cupboard at work. ‘Nuff said. In these days of consoles which could run the space program (and in the case of Mir, apparently do), it’s refreshing to remember just how AGGRAVATING graphically naive but immensely playable games are. I sense more gladiatorial picque upcoming, and rate the GB’s chances of surviving the holiday at 50/50.

Probably about the same as mine. A week after I come back, I have a company medical to attend. I fully expect to be told that I’m overweight, drink too much, exercise too little, and have a crap diet — but I can then write it all of as holiday hangover. [“Yes, three weeks ago I could have won an Olympic gold…”] Certainly better to have it AFTER, last thing I want before going away is someone telling me to adopt the lifestyle of an anorexic monk.

And so I vanish into the wide blue yonder. Unless I encounter one of the myriad American serial killers, overdose on fresh orange juice, or slip a disc carrying my excess baggage, I will be back in a fortnight, with tales of bravery and excess…

In all the fuss and palaver over the last couple of weeks, it’s rather crept up on the world that a thumping majority of Scots have just voted for their own Parliament. It’s not quite independence – you are still some way off needing a visa to get past Carlisle – but it remains a significant event.

Personally, my patriotism increased markedly after moving to England; or perhaps more accurately, my anti-English resentment. I suspect I was not the only Scot cheering Moldova on Wednesday, even if I couldn’t tell you where it was without an atlas. This resentment has grown in Scotland noticeably since the last referendum, in which a majority again voted for devolution, but it wasn’t 40% of the eligible electorate. This was a bit like saying, okay, 2 million people attended Diana’s funeral, so the other 54 million must think she’s a toffee-nosed slag. [I’m sorry: I won’t mention the D word again]

Things built up under the Conservative government, when Scotland resolutely failed to vote for them, and was punished by being used as a sort of testing ground for ideas, both good (all-day opening) and very, very bad (the poll tax — we TOLD you it wouldn’t work, but it took riots in Trafalgar Square to convince you). Finally, the rest of Britain decided to agree with Scotland, and Major was given the boot.

So, now what? Not a lot, really. Should hopefully bring an end to daft suggestions about a United Kingdom football team, at least, but otherwise, this new referendum is the equivalent of your teenage son deciding to move out — oh, and can he have the TV, please? And he’ll still pop back for Sunday lunch. And when he needs washing done. We Scots are a canny bunch, and would love nothing more than to have our independence, and make England pay for it. Maybe we could become England’s mistress: a steady stream of money flows North, in exchange for the odd footballer every once in a while…

But somehow, I suspect this would offend national pride a bit; a more likely match is a country whom Scotland could get into bed with, yet keep our self-respect. France is the obvious candidate: the Auld Alliance, and it’s a country in sore need of something we Scots have in abundance: pop stars. Their home produced variety are…well, let’s just say that Big Country would be a major improvement. In exchange, we could take some of their surplus babes off their hands, as they have far too many, and we have, er, Sheena Easton. If ever there was a partnership made in heaven, this is it: we get rid of Wet Wet Wet and Rod Stewart, while acquiring Emmanuelle Beart and Isabelle Adjani (or close facsimiles thereof).

Given this as a potential future, is it really any wonder we voted “Yes”?

Looking round the country at the moment, one inevitable conclusion is reached: it’s all fucked up and gone to hell in a handbasket. The past week has seen a tidal wave of hysteria sweep across the media, and inevitably, if you repeat often enough that everyone in the nation is racked by grief, it will eventually be so, grinding the entire nation to a virtual standstill. In a week, I’ve gone from slightly anti-Royal to fervent Republican. Now, the sooner they bury the bitch, the better.

But these people, moaning and wailing outside Kensington Palace. Who ARE they? It’s not anyone I know, that’s for sure, and the atmosphere at work has been more aggravation at the excess of it all — there’s been no shortage of dead Princess jokes requested. At times, I’ve felt more like I’m living in ‘Heathers’ than anything else.

Diana was a media creation: slightly longer-lasting than the Spice Girls, but essentially the same. Through the press and television, we got to know her better than the vast majority of people know their neighbours. So, for some folk, the loss is immense — but it’s probably the same people who obsess over soap operas. The stronger your grip on real life, the less you need to live vicariously through the tabloids.

It’s just another case of early death syndrome. Mother Teresa has done a hell of a lot more for the poor and needy than the Princess, yet I doubt they’ll cancel any football matches when she dies. It’s not as if the Princess was even a fulltime worker for charity: she seemed to spend more time swanning round the world on holiday than anything else, despite what all the post-mortem hagiographies would have you believe.

It’s sad she died, but I feel just as sad that Dodi Al Fayed died, or even that Henri Paul, the chauffeur died. All three were stupid: Paul to drink and drive, the celebrities to get in the car and let him take them through Paris at four times the legal speed limit.

Coming into work this morning, I had to run the gauntlet of a mob of well-intentioned bucket wielders, collecting for Di’s favourite charities. I had to resist the temptation to grab them by the throat and ask what they’d done for the same charities BEFORE Diana became road-kill. But perhaps they’re just imitating the tabloid press, who have shown an unparalleled level of humbug over the past week. Nothing new there, then.

Even the Internet has been swamped. Everywhere from alt.asian-movies to uk.media.animation.anime has been polluted by spammers who want to slam their emotional angst down the throats of everyone else. To them, and all those of similar mind, I say: get a life — not a death.

[Sept 6th: I literally had just finished putting the above up on the site when I discovered that Mother Theresa has indeed just died. I am a little spooked by this, in view of my comments! However, it will be interesting to see what happens, and compare it to the rampant excesses of Dead Di mania.]