In the old days, summer used to burst into our lives like a be-permed cop on a drug raid. It took no prisoners. These days it slithers in like a bogus gas meter reader. I ask for ID, but in place of a shiny, optimistic visage I’m offered a grainy cameo of moody humidity. Such is Scotland in June, July and, come to think of it, August. I would emigrate but that’s not feasible for a number of reasons, the main one being I only have enough savings for a two-day stretch in Braemar. Which is one and a half days too many for anyone still possessed of eyes, a brain and taste.

Then it struck me, the SNP’s stunning electoral success has shown there is a new self-confidence at large in this once peely-wally, subservient, colonial outpost. We are currently staring balefully at the shackles. A ‘square go’ can’t be far off. And if an entire nation can consider the possibilities of autonomy with some seriousness, why not one man?

Colin Montgomery’s meritocracy will take its lead from Shaver’s Weekly ...

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Yes, I’m going to declare myself an independent republic.

Republic of Colin
After years of answering to society, it’s time for me to go my own separate way. Sure we had good times, shared experiences and memorable days – you know, the NHS, driving down roads, having rubbish collected (sometimes) – but there’s a yearning deep inside for greater control over my own affairs. I don’t want to be subject to archaic laws that would unfairly penalise a man for wanting to go on the odd murderous rampage. Nude. Whilst carrying a black pudding. The only remedy is to call it a day and formally secede.

This will of course throw up a number of prickly issues. I shall be forced to confront an inevitable glut of byzantine constitutional implications no doubt. And let’s not even begin to contemplate the anguish of a thousand administrative alterations. No, for now, there is a real and very pressing need to properly delineate the new nation’s position on matters of domestic and foreign import. So let it hereby be known that the Independent Republic of Colin is committed to the following policy directions (subject to whimsy).

Defence
I declare myself to be unilaterally opposed to the nuclear deterrent on the grounds of principle, cost and space. Instead, I will forge an alliance with the neighbouring Republic of Run Away that would see us employ ‘training shoe’ diplomacy to resolve any conflict which could threaten my state. And my face.

Foreign Affairs
Formal relations with fellow nation states shall be established on the basis of their cuisine. This will see my nation make frequent state fact-finding visits to representatives of India, China, Turkey, Thailand, Italy and the tiny enclave of Pierino in Bernard Street, whose key ministerial staff I have enormous respect for.

Health
While the current coalition government continues to flog the deranged horse that is the top-down restructuring of the NHS, I pledge to introduce bottom-up reform of my own health service. Or should I say ‘bottoms up’. I’m not referring to the seedy strip joint on Lothian Road (although I have been told by respectable perverts that it is “a right tonic for the loins”). Bottom’s up refers to the restorative power of a quick snifter, post yardarm, on a thrice-weekly basis – purely for medicinal purposes of course.

Education
My nation understands that knowledge is power. But we also understand that nobody likes a smartarse. So I pledge to a modest self-improvement drive for the sole citizen of my nation consisting of reading the Shaver’s Weekly and checking out anything with that Neil Oliver in it (I don’t do Starkey.)

Transport
The tram debacle has been a lesson to us all. Public transport is a drain on a nation’s finances. Instead I shall invest time and money training seagulls to hoist me aloft and carry me safely to wherever I need to be. Well it’s either that or taxis and the driver’s endless conspiracy theories about ‘the cooncil’. So, bring on the gull wrangler forthwith.

Culture
My nation is possessed of a unique and vibrant cultural life. The national pastime of imbibing and spouting inanities is a source of great pride to its sole denizen. And you can’t go anywhere in my nation without hearing the haunting melodies produced by the discombobulated cerebellum. Think the sound of a slightly out of tune radio.

Climate
My nation sits officially within the temperate zone but can be prone to black skies throughout the year. In fact, truth be told, independence may well only exacerbate this phenomenon. Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all.

Scotland. All is forgiven. I love your tartan locks and tall poppy-hating humour. I feel giddy after a picnic of your pies and Irn Bru. I smile at your evil sectarianism. Will you have me back? Please. I promise I won’t break away again. Not until next year anyway.