Scotland is an unusual place to be a patriot. We seem to be required to steer a course between the pomp and the piss: we each have to be our country’s greatest promoter and its most scathing critic, a stance that our national mind-set finds no dichotomy in. The argument ‘It’s a’right for us tae slag us aff, but it’s no’ a’right fur you tae slag us aff!’ pretty much sums it up; many social groups use variations on the same argument all over the world, although I’d contend that few do it so eloquently. Ours is a nation with only a vague notion of itself, where we will cling onto – or adopt – any symbols around which we can rally with no mind given to the inherent contradictions. The Scots can be noble, salt-of-the-earth savages and inventive, poetic, philosophical intellectuals at the same time, or so our tourist trade would have us believe. We can let ourselves be stereotyped as Irn-Bru swigging, deep-fried Mars Bar eaters while reminding you of a long list of Scottish inventions from the television to the telephone and covering all ground in-between, just so long as we have a Lion Rampant to stare misty-eyed at while singing ‘Flower of Scotland’.

I take at best a laissez-faire attitude to all things Scottish; I’m a dilettante (it’s okay to use French terms to describe myself because the French are the Auld Allies). I’ll wear a kilt to weddings as required, and I’ve watched Braveheart – our national documentary, wherein an Australian fights for our independence in Ireland – the required few hundred times to be allowed to keep my passport. I can quote whole scenes from Trainspotting and verses of Burns’ poems and will no doubt wear a black armband when either Sir Sean Connery or Billy Connolly finally surrenders their stranglehold on this mortal coil. But like a lot of people, I have my limits: I still find a large part of the auld Scots language as impenetrable as Chinese, I don’t follow the actions of our Parliament any more than I do the goings-on in Westminster and I have to admit bagpipes have their place, but too much of that racket and I start to get a hangover.

However, I will always fight strongly in favour of our right to be Scottish, and I would challenge anyone to find another race with such a rich, colourful history and a vital – albeit slightly confused – present.

With this in mind, I reached for my metaphorical claymore when in today’s Scottish Sun and Daily Record (Wednesday 24th June 2009) I read articles – by Andrew Nicoll and Dave King respectively – telling me there have been allegations that workers at the National Library of Scotland are being barred from displaying the Saltire in their workplace.

Both accounts have been based around information obtained under the Freedom of Information Act by the SNP’s Christine Grahame, amounting to a series of e-mails distributed to the staff of the National Library by their director of customer services, Alexandra Miller. The e-mails, dating back to March this year, imply the displaying of the Saltire could be interpreted as racist, with one quote going so far as to say: “I believe it could even impinge on respect at work issues where such nationalistic displays may intimidate non-Scottish colleagues”.

Despite the shock-factor of both features, this incident is almost a non-story. Both articles include a statement by the chief executive of the National Library, Martyn Wade, where he points out that the National Library still flies the St.Andrew’s Cross, as do many Government buildings in Edinburgh, and no blanket bans of the symbol have been issued. Unsurprisingly, in fact, this news-bite seems to be a rather feeble attempt at political broadsides and a little cry for attention from Nats MSP Christine Grahame and, to a lesser extent, Scots Tory Leader Annabel Goldie, as they are both the sources of the most newsworthy quotes

The Good Duke, Guru of the Groovy and Shaman of Smoooooth (let me dream!), has acquired a NEMESIS.

You good people out there, well . . . you know I love you all, right? But see, it goes deeper than that. I pretty much only have four categories for everyone: Love, Like, Weariness and Apathy. In fact – with the exception of those smart, suave, bodacious, able-bodied, sextastic souls reading these words – I lump pretty much everyone into the latter two categories. I do not do this out of condescension, for I cannot claim that my own shit does not, in reality, stink; I’m no better than any ten people you care to mention, and am probably a good sight worse. I just like to think that – out of luck, kismet or the will of the Almighty Bruce Willis – I happen to have met and come to know a lot of double-cool non-arseholes, and the majority of Humanity does not measure up. Sorry, Humanity, but in the words of the great Roy Walker, I say what I see.

With this in mind, you have to understand how much it pains me to have someone I truly hate.

This loathsome individual is the Khan to my Captain Kirk. The Professor Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes. The Irn-Bru mixed with my Jack Daniels (which, incidentally, they drink!). The human equivalent of a pubic hair trapped under your foreskin, surely genetically engineered in a laboratory by some shadowy agency with malicious designs to drive me OUT OF MY MIND. A collection of undesirable traits collected in a body that looks exactly like a wax model of a human being that has been left to melt for an hour beside the radiator.

I actually do not have the vocabulary to properly express how truly, madly, deeply in Loathe I am with this person. Obnoxious? That’s too light. Despicable? Not even Daffy Duck can capture how despicable. Rude, crude, selfish, childish, hostile, malicious . . . none of these normally servicable adjectives do their job here. This individual is more indescribably horrific than a Lovecraftian monster.

The worst thing about this individual is what they are making me become. They’re making me say things like the above. They are making me be nasty. Cruel, even. For truly that is the mark of a Nemesis; they possess the ability to turn you AGAINST YOURSELF. Chilling.

I’ve taken moral high ground where I could. I do not seek to engage the beast when the opportunity presents itself, as it so often does. For most of my day, week in and week out, I’ve been watching it graze; this is a day-long process, for the beast’s appetite is great. I listened just yesterday while it complained of having a sore stomach – still eating all the while – and I did NOT ask “Which stomach?” YES, Brothers and Sisters, Duke Groovy has EVOLVED! As Frog is my Witless I bit down on my knuckles and pretended I did not hear! Hallelujah!

I do not complain when – like a very slow child stumbling in halfway through a film – this vile specimen interjects loudly into any and every conversation within its considerable vocal range. The questions, commentary, opinion, slander, hyperbole and utter bull ka-ka offered up shame my ears. I have to actually apologise to my ears at the end of the working day. “Sorry you had to hear that, boys. I couldn’t stop it! There is no muzzle strong enough! But you forgive me, right? Hello? Hello? Shit, don’t go DEAF in self-defence!” No substance, no style, no wit, no wisdom, the beast offers up as many verbal empty calories as it consumes real ones.

But these are minor gripes beside what the beast has done to me. It has made me petty.

Now those of you who know me know The Duke has a great capacity for flouncing off in the huff; I have in fact a great capacity for huffing AND puffing. And you all know the petty, pedantic, ugly nature that lurks not very far below my perpetually horny, hirsute, huggable façade. But I keep it hidden, most of the time. I’m a Good Boy. I plaster

There is a school of thought which says that human beings are predisposed to form tribes, social networks and co-dependencies anywhere that they gather in large enough numbers, and that those groups begin to share traits and exhibit similarities. This idea has a lot of merit; it is, after all, the underpinning of a lot of racism, the whole in-group/out-group mindset and an easy way to pigeonhole people. Sweeping generalisations let you dismiss a sub-set of humanity out of hand without ever having to learn facts or develop an informed opinion.

If this holds true, then what characteristic defines the people who work in call centres? They are surely a tribe, just as real as ‘smokers’ or ‘traffic wardens’ or ‘the French’. Is it patience? No, definitely not; for every long-fused, saintly soul who will soak up abuse like a sponge and hand out soothing words like alms, there are three Duke Groovys. We snarl, we mutter, we curse; we sigh, adopt patronising tones and use double-speak. So is it, then, lack of ambition? Call centre work is – and I’m being very generous here – a glorfied McJob. I say “Certainly not!” as I rise miraculously from my wheelchair. The call centre world is full of Yes Men and brown-nosers and climbers of all descriptions, they just make sure they get into upper management sharpish and never look back.

The one trait I find that unifies us call centre monkeys, great and small, is the ability to make bad situations bearable. We know you can’t polish a turd, so we make the best use of that turd: call centre compost, if you will. We find humour in the latest unreasonable demands on our time and self-respect. We unify in our frustrations. We talk big about rebellion we will never carry out, and we poke fun at almost EVERYONE in the hope of making ourselves feel better.

The reason I bring up this fascinating insight into the murky brains of my fellow monkeys and I? Glad you asked, as I was just getting to that.

I’ve recently changed jobs within my company. I get the same crappy wages, same crappy hours; I’m still customer-facing with a shit-eating grin and a big spoon, but in a new branch of the business. I’d had over three years on the broadband side of things and could do the job in my sleep, tied up with a sack over my head, but frankly I was getting burned-out. The same whiny, needling voices every day with the same banal complaints, the same complete inability to really help anyone, it was all getting me down. The only thing that was changing was me; I was becoming less sympathetic and more resentful by the day. There is no dignity or self-respect in debasing yourself to morons every day.

This new job does not offer an escape from people, oh no. But I figured I’d get three weeks of training, then have the pleasure of all NEW complaints from the Great British Public. Variety, it’s the spice of life, or so I’ve been told. So I’m now working on the new business phoneline side of things, a pretty high-profile campaign that (of course) our employers are single-handedly steering into disaster. Our training was intense, but still managed to leave us wholly unprepared for the work we’re actually doing. The systems won’t give us full access for a variety of reasons both technical and legal, but all spurious. My phone doesn’t work properly. It’s ace.

The upshot of all of this is that - for both training and the forseeable future - we’ve been seconded to a site in the centre of town away from our beloved office in the Technology Park. It’s a little more relaxed in the office, we’re close to places that serve actual edible food (all the Greggs you can eat, my children, follow me into the Promised Land as Frog is my witless, the Duke is your shepherd you shall not want, Amen), and best of all it is but a hop, skip and jump (or stagger, trip and roll) from Casa Groovy.

However, it is still call centre work, and demanding, c