There are two curses, among others, which have enlivened my life and which have always allowed me to claim to be the very model of an anti-racist.
I had the great good fortune to be born in Glasgow during one of the interminable wars which Britain has, over centuries and generally for reasons of colonial expansion, known to some as Liebensraum, got herself into and from which her allies have always had to extricate her.
Then my great, great grand uncle was hanged, my apologies for this, by the South for running a Slave Underground just prior to the US Civil War. Those that rumple my hair on a damp day, especially now that there's the odd gray fleck about, often comment that perhaps my great, greatly endowed grand uncle had engaged in a little more activity with a dusky southern belle than simply helping her heaving buttocks across the Mason Dixon Line.
Because of these extraordinary accidents of birth and ancestry I cannot possibly be accused of racism no matter what ridicule I choose to pour upon the Scots, the British and the descendants of Ham. In passing any comment whatsoever on any of these species of humanity, I do but poke fun upon myself and upon all my own genealogy and that of course is exactly what racism is not about at all. It is noted with regret that, while there may still be Rhodesian Ridgebacks, French Poodles and Moscow Mules, there are no more British Bulldogs.