John Smeaton recalls the fight at Glasgow Airport for the Press

Dr. Bilal Abdulla, a physician of Iraqi origin employed by a Glasgow-area Hospital, drove his flaming Jeep Cherokee, loaded with propane cylinders, into the main terminal of Glasgow Airport in a failed suicide bombimg attempt at mid-afternoon on Saturday June 30th.

—Bloomberg: —

(Abdulla) jumped from the Jeep after the crash, Stephen Clarkson, a witness, told the BBC.

“His whole body was on fire,” Clarkson said. “Immediately after the airport official put him out with the extinguisher, he got up off the ground. He didn’t seem like he was distressed.”

Police attempted to restrain the man, “but the guy was quite strong and started fighting with the police,” Clarkson told the BBC.

At that point, John Smeaton, an airport baggage-handler, chose to intervene. In a later interview with reporters, Smeaton recalled thinking to himself indignantly:

You’re nae hitting the Polis mate, there’s nae chance.”

So Smeaton charged in and proceeded to deliver a flying kick to the struggling physician. Other bystanders also pitched in, including one Michael Kerr whose leg was broken when he was knocked flying by the terrorist. Soon, however, a number of irate locals has “put the boot in” and, as Smeaton recalled,”some guy banjoed him,” which terminated the affray successfully, placing the would-be terrorist on the ground in secure police possession.

In that later interview, Smeaton issued a warning to terrorists:

Glasgow doesnae accept this, if you come tae Glasgow, we’ll set about you.”

0:34 video

The 31-year-old baggage-handler has become a hero in Britain, as the Wall Street Journal reported yesterday.

He has a Wikipedia entry, featuring collected quotations.

A tribute web-site has been created, where visitors can buy Mr. Smeaton a beer. (Over 1400 pints are already on order.)

Posters are being sold featuring a disgruntled Osama bin Ladin saying “You Told Me John Smeaton Was Off on Saturday.” And they’re selling t shirts on Ebay with the motto “What Would John Smeaton Do?”

And some wag has composed a commemorative poem in the style of Burns, which can be found on various web-sites.

Twas doon by the inch o’ Abbots
Oor Johnny walked one day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more that he could say
A fanatic muslim b*****d
Wiz doin what he’d planned
And intae Glesca’s departure hall
A Cherokee he’d rammed.

A big Glaswegian polis
Came forward tae assist
He thocht “a wumman driver”
Or at least someone half-pi**ed
But to his shock nae drunken Jock
Emerged to grasp his hand
But a flamin Arab loony
Frae Al Qaeda’s band

The mad Islamist nut-case
Had set hissel’ on fire
And swung oot at the polis
GBH his clear desire
Now that’s no richt wur Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray
A left hook and a heid butt
Required tae save the day.

Now listen up Bin Laden
Yir sort’s nae wanted here
For imported English radicals
Us Scoatsman huv nae fear
Oor hame grown Glesca Asians
Will have nae bluidy truck
So tak yer worldwide jihad
An get yersel tae f***

The Scottish Daily Record reports:

Poor NHS treatment has led to almost half a million Scots dying in the last 30 years, a new study has revealed.

Doctors at Glasgow University found that between 1974 and 2003, a total of 462,000 people died in Scotland as a result of health service failings.

It means Scotland has one of the highest avoidable death rates in western Europe.

The study examined the number of deaths caused by a lack of “timely and effective health care”.

The vast majority of people – around 250,000 – who died due to inadequate or delayed treatment were heart or stroke patients.

Another 7300 had cancer and slightly more than 2000 were pneumonia patients.

The study revealed that avoidable deaths among men in Scotland over the time period was 176 for every 100,000 people.

This compared with 159 in Portugal, 129 in Austria and 100 in Italy.

Rates for women were 123 per 100,000, also higher than every other European country investigated.

Paolo Uccello. The Hunt in the Forest. c. 1465-70. Oil on canvas. Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, UK.

(above) 15th century Italian gentlemen hunting the roebuck.

Like the blade of grass pushing through the concrete sidewalk, natural human instincts, well known and understood in the past, continue to assert themselves even in today’s deracinated urban sprawl.

In contemporary Glasgow, for instance, young men are secretly breeding and training dogs (lurcher and greyhound crosses), and going out early in the morning in organized groups, just as their ancestors once did, to hunt the roe deer (Capreolus capreolus), who, long unhunted, have adapted to life in modern suburbs and grown numerous and bold.

Being deprived of the right to own and carry more useful and practical arms, they have nothing beyond airguns, pocket knives, and their boots and hands to use to kill a deer. And being unschooled in venery or sportsmanship, these covert hunters dispatch their quarry crudely when it is brought to bay.

Regrettably as well, they evidently have not learned how to unmake the deer and how to prepare him for the table. Nor, I fear, has anyone taught them to reward the hounds, as William Twiti advised, with “bowellis and fete” (bowels and feet).

As one might expect, the organized do-gooder organizations are howling, and the British Press, e.g., the Telegraph and the BBC, is suitably outraged and alarmed by the discovery of sporting activity by British youths.

All this is ironically occurring at the same time in which an excess population of rural red deer is leading British academics, environmentalists, and journalists to loudly advocate the reintroduction of the wolf (!) to curb their numbers.

Deer poaching, in defiance of authority, has a long and famous tradition in Britain, including not only Robin Hood but even Shakespeare himself.

Long may Glasgow’s Geordies divert themselves by the manly pursuit of the swift and ingenious roebuck, say I. Over time, it is likely that with greater experience there will evolve among the more skillful sportsmen the same sort of better practices and aesthetic code which naturally evolved among their predecessors.

Unfortunately, better sportsmanship is far more likely to evolve in circumstances in which sport is openly and proudly pursued, rather than in those in which sport is inevitably stigmatised and equated by bigots and Puritans with crime.

Philip Howard, late of the Black Watch, in today’s Wall Street Journal, editorializes about Britain’s Labour Government’s cheese-paring over minor and trivial expenses attendant upon keeping up the traditions of Britain’s fighting Highland regiments.

The British Army has (created) a shortage of kilts for its Highland Regiment. It has ordered only 320 ceremonial kilts for 5,000 Jocks, so they are having to share, which is not a comfortable business for the buttock-swinging, elite warriors…

This dire deficiency of the kilt has arisen because last August the British Army, in its infinite wisdom, decided to amalgamate its remaining Scottish regiments. No doubt there were sound strategic and logistic reasons for this, on the ground that bigger is cheaper to administer. But it destroyed the ancient traditions and symbols of tribal families…

The Royal Scots were the First of Foot and Right of the Line. They claim to be the oldest regiment in the British Army, nicknamed Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard. The legend goes that Pilate’s Roman legionary dad married a Highland lass from Fortingal in Perthshire. The Royal Scots wore trews (tight tartan breeks) rather than the kilt, because they were a Lowland Regiment. When they were in French service as “Le Régiment de Douglas”, a dispute arose with the “Régiment de Picardie” as to which was the senior. The French Colonel claimed that his regiment was on duty on the night of the Crucifixion. To which the Colonel of the Royal Scots replied: “Had it been our shift that night, we wouldna hae slept at our post.”

Read the whole thing.