AH votit Remain three years syne in much the same spirit as ah bocht ma season ticket for the Accies – howplessly, wi nae great enthusiasm, jist a bleak unnerstaunin that it’s this or it’s supportin Motherwell.

Cause back then it wis hard tae get lathered up aboot the idea o votin Remain. Naebody really thocht o the referendum as a viable contest o democracy, jist an opportunity tae lance the boil o English nationalism, an sae Leave wis the campaign that made aw the racket. The European Union is faur frae the neo-utopian Neverland we’re noo accustomed tae talkin it up as, an for a lang spiel the Brexit Bevy banged their tom-toms unopposed; the anti-democratic centralisation o pouers this, the political an bureaucratic conformism that. Remain’s response? The Lesser o Twa Evils – an honest pitch, but a hard hill tae see yersel dyin on.

The ither thing aboot votin Remain that wis kind o aff-pittin wis that the fowk ye were cosy barneyin wi, whether it wis Labour or the Tories, Montagues or Capulets, were suddenly aw on yer side. It’s wan thing chappin doors an stuffin envelopes tae see yer oily bampot o an MSP finally get his jotters, but it’s anither thing tae dae it when thon verra MSP is haudin yer jaiket at the fit o the close an fist-pumpin every leaflet ye deliver. Hell, hauf o us dinnae even like oor ain best pals, sae tae be linkin airms doon the Yellae Brick Road wi David Cameron an Ruth Davidson wis a sair yin for onybody that disnae play weel wi ithers.

Sae ah guess it’d be kind o a cheek for me tae turn roond noo an say ah care aboot the EU when ah never did hee-haw aboot it afore … an ah’m no unsympathetic tae the claim that a cancelled Brexit wad represent the thwartin o the Sacred Will o Ra Peepul. But then again, let’s face it – at this stage, the idea that it wad be a blow tae oor democracy if Brexit didnae happen is like the notion that it’d be a blow tae Genghis Khan if we dug him up an shot him in the heid. Whit’s deid is deid is deid.

Cause the luikin-gless o Brexit has shown us whit we shuirly awready kent – that UK democracy is a staunin joke, a gallus oxymoron, a pukka collection o charlatans an chancers fechtin each ither ower the wheel o their faither’s Rolls-Royce, arguin aboot whit cliff tae drive it aff. Check oot Boris Johnson, a glowerin Jim Henson bowl-cut wi a haufwit plastered tae the bottom; check oot Theresa May, whase public appearances hae assumed the texture o a body-swap comedy fae the 1980s, a desperately unfunny cross-ower atween Being There an Weekend At Bernie’s; an tell me if ye think whit’s wrang wi oor democracy can be solved bi breengin oot o Brussels.

Meanwhile, the petitions, the mairches, the gie’s-a-winch videos ... Remain has left it tae the last five meenits tae rin the plays they should hae been makkin fae the get-go. Ye can caw that the arrogance o the liberal elite, or the essential Joni Mitchellism o oor relationship wi the EU – that ye dinnae ken whit ye’ve got till it gangs – but the reason that the lang-dormant size nines o the Remainers hae finally mobilised an takken tae the streets is obvious. When the Tory establishment were (nominally) supportin Remain, naebody really kent wha or whit we were fechtin against. Game o Thrones wis easier tae explain. But noo the bad guys are back on Team Bawbag again, an awbody – finally! – kens jist whaur they staun.

See, the real tak-awa fae the EU referendum is that modern democracy is aw aboot votin AGAINST things, raither than for them. Against the EU, against Hillary, against independence. Whether this is jist human nature or a function o oor carefully-curated political times, ah dinnae ken. But politically, naethin quite motivates us tae pit oor cross in a box like sheer spite. When votin Remain meant stickin it tae Nigel Farage an a haunfu o fat skinheids daein the pogo tae the Dambusters theme, ah wisnae fussed. It felt like punchin doon tae me. Yet noo that a second Remain vote wad mean hingin wan on the psychopathic careerists o the Tory Pairty, ah’d rin throu six brick waws tae dae it.

But spite is a sword that cuts baith weys. We kid oorsels on that it disnae happen, but we aw ken fowk that hiv switched fae Aye tae Naw this past five years, an there’s no yin o them that’s had their heid turned bi the economic case for the Union or a love-bomb fae Grant Mitchell aff EastEnders. Ach, they’ll mak aw the richt noises aboot industry an business an aw that, but catch them wi a drink in them an they’ll tell ye – whit chynged their mind wis no that they luved their kintrae less, but that they hated the zoomers mair.

Och, ah ken, ah ken. Whit’s tae hate aboot independence? But let’s no play the daft laddie, here. If yer vote wis a custard pie, wha hisnae thocht aboot plankin it straicht in the puss o some pro-indy blogger, or Facebook group admin, or churner o twice reTweetit kail? Yin bi yin, ah’ve cam aff every indy group ah wis pairt o, an it’s aw because ah cannae deal wi some fowk even when ah agree wi them. Ah cannae deal wi propaganda flung thegither in MS Paint, wi thocht-terminatin slogans howked fae Stalin’s middens, wi baseless antagonism tae ordinary punters that jist happened tae vote Naw. Ah ken it’s no rational. Ah ken we’re anely talkin aboot a few fowk. But ah hate it. An ah’m no surprised when ither people hate it tae, an wad cut aff their ain nebs (an their faces forby) jist tae set some radge’s gas at a peep.

O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, to see oursels as others see us. Weel, Brexit has turnt Westmínster intae a richt wee haw o mirrors, an we should aw be mindit that whit we see when we luik at Jacob Rees-Mogg is, incredible tho it micht seem, whit ither people see when they luik at us. Loathin. Fear. Resentment. Scorn. An we can write aw that aff, tell oorsels that haters gonnae hate, sing alang tae the second rin o oor toon-haw hit, “Saor Alba!”, an stairt agitatin for a third referendum afore the next yin’s even ower wi. Or we can lairn oor lesson aheid o time. Tak oor tellin noo. Box up the unicorns, loons, set by the spite. Nae mind is wirth fechtin ower. Nae hert is no. Sae let’s stop crusading. An stairt persuadin.