It used to be unthinkable. Now it’s thinkable. In fact, in some minds, it’s already been thought. Scotland might be voting yes to independence and splitting from the rest of the union. I’m not Scottish, and I’m therefore powerless to intervene, although I would personally prefer Scotland to stay – but only for entirely selfish and superficial reasons. Reason one: I’d rather not be lumbered with a Tory government from now until the day the moon crashes into the Thames. Two: I quite like Scotland and the Scottish, so it’s hard not to feel somehow personally affronted by their rejection. Why did you just unfriend and unfollow me, Scotland? What did I ever do to you? What’s that? Sorry, you’ll have to slow down a bit. Can’t understand a word you’re saying. Don’t you come with subtitles?! Ha ha ha! No, seriously, come back. Scotland? Scotland?

Apparently the consequences of a split in the union could be calamitous. The skies will fall and the seas will boil and the dead shall rise and the milk will spoil. There will be a great disturbance in the force. Duncan’s horses will turn and eat each other. Starving ravens will peck out your eyes halfway through the Great British Bake Off. Your dad will give birth to a jackal full of hornets. And in London’s last remaining DVD shop, Gregory’s Girl will quietly be re-categorised as “world cinema”.

If Scotland divorces Britain, the union jack will have to be redesigned, which is upsetting news for every prick with a union jack cushion on their stupid sofa in their stupid house. Minus the soothing, steadying blue of the saltire, the flag’s going to resemble a violent, blood-burst staining a shroud. Better to scrap it and start again with a new design that more accurately reflects the spirit of the age. I vote for a crying brown oblong.

The Queen is on the front pages, looking worried. DON’T LET ME BE THE LAST QUEEN OF SCOTLAND shrieked the Mirror, although MONARCH OF THE GLUM would’ve been a better headline. Or maybe BAH-MORAL.

The Sunday Times’s shock poll plunged Westminster into panic mode. The first rule of panic mode is that you don’t talk about panic mode: thus Alistair Darling could quickly be found on the airwaves denying there was any panic at all, adding that his voice only cracks like that when he’s feeling especially confident and what’s more, he always defecates in his own trousers during interviews.

Darling’s partly to blame for the swing in the polls anyway. I didn’t watch the first debate because I hadn’t actually heard of Scotland at the time, but the second one was a depressing car crash throughout in which Darling spluttered unconvincing, stuttery sentences like a beatboxer with hiccups.

Despite Darling’s panic-denial, Westminster’s response has more than a whiff of clammy desperation about it. George Osborne abruptly announced he would shortly unveil a range of new powers and benefits Scotland could look forward to in the event of a no vote. Increased powers of taxation. The ability to control the sea. Banknotes made of liquorice. Free stickers. If it votes no, Scotland will also receive the Angel of the North, the Eden Project, Stonehenge, the Cutty Sark, Alton Towers, a souvenir pen, a backrub and access to the new royal baby at weekends. It’s all a little undignified, like a man on his knees clutching his girlfriend’s ankles and sobbing that he can change. “It’s no’ you, it’s me,” replies Scotland, in its newly exotic foreign accent, before slinking off to have exciting sex with Greenland.

In case bribery doesn’t work, some of the stars of Westminster are apparently going to tour Scotland giving speeches in favour of staying with the union, even though dispatching politicians to whip up support is the worst thing that could possibly happen, like turning a hose on a drowning man.

Nonetheless, Ed Miliband will visit Scotland to inspire people. To do what? Join Isis? Incredibly, he’ll be teaming up with Gordon Brown. Sitting through back-to-back speeches by Brown and Miliband is a challenge comparable to eating 15 sheets of cardboard with a heavy cold. Expecting that duo to dazzle wavering voters is like entering Stephen Hawking into a clog-dancing contest.

Cameron can’t help here, of course. In Scotland, David Cameron is less popular than Windows 8. He’s the physical embodiment of everything a fair percentage of Scottish people hate: a ruddy-faced old Etonian walking around like he just inherited the place, sporting a permanently shiny chin as though he’s just enjoyed a buttery crumpet in front of the cricket. Worse still, he’s a lizard. An actual lizard. Send him to Scotland to make a speech and the moment a crowd member shouts “boo!” or hurls an egg, Cameron will “display” by raising the hyoid bone of his throat and enlarging his dewlap in a bid to intimidate potential predators. And that won’t play well on Scotland Tonight.

No, the only way Cameron’s going to win a single no vote is if he leaves his clothes on a beach and pretends to have swum off into oblivion, or vows to slam his balls in a car door if Scotland decides to stay. I don’t have a vote, but I vote for the latter.