Rupert St John-Fontaine’s Journal: What does “M’on the Hoops” mean?

Here is the last entry in the diary of Rupert St John-Fontaine, adviser to the Ministry of Social Affairs …

I am now fully integrated with Holyrood in the sustainability department. My work to undermine Scottish independence as Boris Johnson’s sleeper has begun. The mysterious “H”, my master, is a cabinet minister in the Sturgeon administration.


I MEET “H” at 9:00 PM at our designated location on the lower level of the New Street parking lot. It’s festival time, and so, to blend in with the crowd, I’m wearing my pink jester hat I bought from Jinky’s, the magic shop in Marble Arch and a pair of oversized yellow plaid pants. and reds. As usual, H’s face is in the shadows, but he looks restless: something about Peter Murrell and the electronic tracking devices on all ministerial cars.

I am given my first mission. I have to infiltrate a group called the Charlotte Square Bumblebee Society which is holding its first post-containment rally on Wednesday night in a private room at the Balmoral.

“It’s basically a front for wealthy SNP supporters who don’t want to declare their allegiances in public,” he tells me. “They are the ones who are secretly funding the movement and they are the ones who know about the missing £ 600,000. We need you to insinuate yourself into their good graces as a merry henchman with landholdings on Skye who wants to restore the Stuart dynasty to the former throne of Scotland.


I had heard of the legend of the “600,000 missing” in the dens of Westminster. The smart talk is that it all went on a 150-1 underdog at Leopardstown, which was a race certainty. The gains would have funded the next referendum and would likely even match the bribes MI5 was preparing to land the next tally, as they did in 2014.

Unfortunately for the Nationalists, they were dealing with a ruthless Dublin betting union that pocketed all the poppy and spent it all in Manchester United lodges.


I have a day off and spend looking for new accommodation because my rented apartment in Leith has been sold to Airbnb. I’m also trying to locate Finger’s Piano Bar, where I’m told you get all the political gossip from the darker elements of Holyrood.

In London, if you want to get acquainted with all things Scotland, all you have to do is head to an old den called Lofthouse & Finney’s on Fleet Street. This is where a bunch of brooding SNP politicians come together to bitch and chatter about why their careers have stalled.

Remind me to tell you about the night a living guy called John Nicolson went into hysterics when he found out that the pleated, embossed wallpaper Schnellinger had promised him ended up in the living room in Number 10, after being look at. by Carrie.

“They only produce this line once a decade,” he cried. “By the time their next edition comes out, I’ll probably be doing karaoke for my dinner at the Caledonian Club.”


I’m attending my first Charlotte Square Bumblebee Society meeting. You wouldn’t believe who are all here.

There are little jumpers everywhere and a constant low hum in the background that sounds like the mating calls of a thousand Pacific walruses but is actually Runrig playing on a loop. These people may be very wealthy and influential, but they are all tough and relentless nationalists. Some wear masks.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I want you all to welcome our guest speaker for the evening and the man who risks everything every day for our great cause. Yes, this is our own Pimpernel tartan, Mr. Murdo Fraser.

The acclamations which greet him make the cutlery tremble. To say I’m stunned is an understatement. “Good evening comrades,” he scolds, “and Saor Alba.” People stamp their feet.

My dining room mate, Lord A ——- D ——- notes my surprise and explains. “Murdo is a strong supporter of Scottish independence, but he volunteered 20 years ago to work behind enemy lines. He’s one of the bravest men I know. No one advanced the cause of independence in Holyrood more than he. All that stuff about Rangers FC and tanks in the streets? It is absolutely priceless.

I am so flabbergasted that his speech is beyond me. Stuff on Scottish Oil and BBC Quislings. He concludes by shouting “M’on the Hoops” and salutes with a closed fist. Everyone knowingly laughs. What does that mean on earth?


I am still in shock from the events of the night before. And so I made my way to Finger’s Piano Bar where Edinburgh‘s parched half-world stands to swap recipes.

I am approached by a shady figure in a shiny costume. He yells a little good-naturedly.

“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Cole-Hamilton. I have heard that you are looking for stylish, reasonably priced accommodation. Can I allow you to buy me a drink? ”

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