DEAR Sir Arthur Nicholas Winston Soames,
Woof woof woof! Friendly greetings and salutations from the Isle of Skye, the Hebridean paradise I’m proud to call home.
The humans inform me that you’ve been encouraging the SNP’s Westminster leader Ian Blackford to come up for an unscheduled visit, and I’m very excited at the prospect. My tail is wagging at double speed right now at the thought of the bonus ear scritches and biscuits that might come my way as a result.
Why don’t you come too? I’d love to take you on a tour of the beautiful sights and sounds of our rugged island, from Fairy Glen and Kilt Rock to Lochalsh Butchers (excellent sausages) and my special spot on the rug in front of the fire. Do you like having your belly rubbed?
I’ve been doing a little research on my iPaw and I’ve discovered that you and I have a lot in common, not least when it comes to impressive pedigree. You’re the grandson of Winston Churchill, and I’m a descendent of Greyfriars Bobby. You’re friends with Prince Charles – and once accused the late Princess of Wales of being in “the advance stages of paranoia” to think her husband was cheating – while one of my loyal ancestors comforted Mary Queen of Scots from under her petticoats right up to the moment she was executed.
We’re both members of dying breeds: me because silly humans want new cross-breed designer dogs, and you because sensible ones don’t want potty-mouthed old dinosaurs representing them in parliament.
It seems we both have visual impairments too: I frequently mistake human legs for canine suitors, resulting in embarrassing scenes, while you seem to find it easy to turn a blind eye by the human suffering caused by your party’s callous policies. My hair grows down over my eyes – what’s your excuse?
I read that you’ve been voted the most sexist of all the MPs, but I don’t mind if you call me a bitch – it’s a statement of fact after all. I know you have a reputation for making “cupping motions” in the House of Commons but I’m sure it’s a coincidence that you do this when women MPs are speaking.
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Or perhaps your inadequate human ears can’t pick up what their high-pitched voices are saying, in which case it’s little wonder you start daydreaming – perhaps about holding a wee terrier pup in each palm, and giving them a gentle squeeze.
Comedian Mark Thomas, pictured above, might have described you as a pantomime villain and “the only person I have met who I considered to be without any redeeming features” after exposing you as an avoider of inheritance tax, but I understand you were against Brexit, and have been speaking out against a catastrophic no deal, so that’s one redeeming feature.
I’m no political expert but I heard the humans talking about stockpiling Pedigree Chum the other day, so I know things are getting bad, and I’d hate to think of a hard border dividing us Skye Terriers from our Irish cousins, who I can assure you are all very good boys and girls.
However, I’m a little concerned about some of your anti-dog language. You compared your Eurosceptic colleagues to an alsation baring its teeth, and said: “You can pat it on the head, in which case it’ll bite you, or you can kick it really hard in the balls, in which case it’ll run away.” I hope you were merely expressing your enthusiasm for Britain’s ongoing membership of the EU rather than speaking from experience of canine confrontations. My own bark is worse than my bite, but my good pal Ginger will cheerfully rip your hand off if you go anywhere near his balls.
I’ve been in touch with our mutual friend Tasmina Ahmed-Sheikh, the former MP for Ochil and South Perthshire, to check if she’d like to meet up during your visit to Scotland, and perhaps join us for a run around the park. I understood you two got on well in the House of Commons, with a woof woof here and a woof woof there during a debate about Donald Trump’s Muslim travel ban. However, she told me I was barking up the wrong tree and that she’d rather wear a cone of shame for the rest of her life than spend another minute in your company.
Not to worry, though – I’m sure my fellow islanders will extend the warmest of welcomes. There’s no hostile environment here on Skye, despite the best efforts of your government. When die-hard Tory Samuel Johnson visited in the 18th century he was so well fed by his hosts the McLeods that he declared he had “tasted lotus”. I assume by this he meant he had been served chicken slathered in peanut butter, with a side serving of kibble.
I hope I have sufficiently whetted your appetite, and that you will join me some time soon for a tour of Skye’s most spectacular sights and most fragrant lampposts. Picture the scene: the two of us being driven along the A87 with our heads out of the window and our tongues flapping in the cold wind, after a busy day of fetching balls and carrying sticks.
I shall eagerly await the postman’s delivery of your reply, and do my very best to restrain myself from ripping it to shreds the minute it touches the floor.
Yours doggedly, Lady the Skye Terrier
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