Scottish Elections: New Politics, Old Pastimes

An even-tempered, “even-handed” sort of piece, by my standards at least, to break me in to the task of writing about a campaign that already looks a bit predictable. I hope I’m wrong.

            At any rate, the broader topic involves a little bee in my bonnet, and a bad habit common to all of Scotland’s parties. The insight isn’t original, but the problem persists after almost 12 years of Holyrood. The SNP get picked on (slightly) only because their manifesto was the most recently published at the time of writing.

            The Sunday Herald, April 17.

When the unlovely nature of the Westminster coalition began to emerge, a few exasperated people made a suggestion. As the Tories and the Liberal Democrats discarded long-held policies, embraced policies they had previously denounced, or introduced – like rabbits from the partnership hat – policies they had never once mentioned during the campaign, the suggestion was this: why not make manifestoes legally binding?

Lockerbie and Libya: Hide & Seek

Alex Salmond says that Moussa Koussa, formerly Gaddafi’s head of intelligence, is merely a “potential witness” in the (still live) Lockerbie investigation, but not a suspect. Dear me, no.

            As the First Minister explains it, had Moussa Koussa been a suspect, he would have been arrested. Since he has not been arrested...

            This is almost as good, if you are in the mood, as William Hague’s assurance that at no time was the non-suspect offered immunity from prosecution after his defection. After all, if there was never any real intention to prosecute, why bother to talk about immunity?

Murdoch: Coming Up for Air

April 13. The Herald.

Here’s a trick question: why would a journalist ever break the law? Were you, should chance befall, engaged upon the pursuit of truth and justice, young and eager, for some venerable old newsheet dedicated to righting wrongs, why would you ever commit a miserable, squalid wrong?

            I’ve broken the law of the land. Anyone I ever respected did the same. Sometimes it involved wilful prejudice towards a trial. Sometimes it involved the invasion of what someone said was someone’s privacy. Sometimes there was deliberate provocation. As in: Go on, sue. Please. Because we really want this tale in open court.

            Once or twice the Official Secrets Act was at stake. Once or twice some utterly minor piece of administrative legislation was being tested. It was, then, just trivia. But what you, me, and the world would call a minor row can matter greatly to an important person who thinks a big job is on the line.

Lockerbie: Lawyers, Guns & Money

The Herald, April 9.

One of my favourite pictures is Raeburn’s portrait of Henry Cockburn, Lord Cockburn, once judge within the Court of Session. It’s there in a glance, cool as you like, direct from an age of reason. It says: here are my principles; convince me.

            I once entertained a theory that most of Scotland’s high-end prose, Walter Scott’s most obviously, descended from Scots law. Years ago, I even tried to convince an audience that Robert Louis Stevenson could not have written nit-picking tales of moral difficulty without Hume and the Faculty of Advocates. They wondered what I was on about.

            Scotland is soaked in the language of lawyers. After the churches and education, the law was the one inviolable (supposedly) thing we rescued from Union. We are a country of laws, of legal tradition, and of reasoned prose. Most of our politicians have been lawyers, and most of our hired legal hands have been political. They can’t help themselves.

Dylan: One From The Heart

A heavy heart. Not a piece I ever meant to write. But, hell, how rich must you be before you open your mouth? Sunday Herald, April 10.

Someone has been nominating Bob Dylan for the Nobel literature prize since 1997. It’s no stretch, as an idea. It’s also about time. If there was no Dylan, none of the other, ineffably pompous criteria concerning art and influence would ever, even once, apply.

            He has his Oscar, his Pulitzer, his many honorary degrees from St Andrews and lesser schools. He has a great many scholarly things attached, barnacle-like, to his name. All that’s left is to persuade the Swedish Academy that a peculiar circumstance of writing and performance is also, always, poetry.

            We could even adopt him as our own, if it helped. Dylan probably knows more about the Scottish folk tradition than most Scottish folk. He has a weakness for our songs. If the SNP is casting the net wide, they could make an honorary Scot (another one) of the laird of Aultmore House, by Nethy Bridge, in one of his many “homes”.

            For Nationalism, it would mark an advance (God knows) on Brian Souter, Donald Trump, David Murray, and the House of Windsor. It would certainly count as a triumph for the literature of Scotland. We’re short on poets, currently.

Obama: Money Doesn't Talk, It Swears (Allegiance)

I wouldn’t describe myself as fascinated with the politics of the United States. Most of it is familiar, predictable, and a bit dull.The endless boasting over freedom and democracy, like the Oath of Allegiance and the veneration of the flag, speak of a deep insecurity, not to mention certain authoritarian tendencies. But those habits are sometimes amusing, if you’re in the mood, at least until the moment the US decides to export a few values on to the heads of the willing and unwilling alike.

            What does fascinate me is America’s effortless success in convincing other countries, the English speakers in particular, that we are just like them. Music, movies and software have a lot to do with that, of course, not to mention some history. But if the US has colonialist traits – denying an imperialist intent all the while – there are armies of the willingly colonised out here in the big world. Profound differences are simply overlooked.

            Back when Clinton was up to his neck in trouble over “that woman” I had an editor who was convinced, beyond all argument, that impeachment must follow. “He’ll never get away with it!” went the cry. So there was nothing for it: I had to get myself to Washington to cover the inevitable historic event.

Omagh: Killing Hope

Standing in Omagh in the rain on a Monday morning in 1998, I thought I knew one thing for sure: it’s over. Whatever republicanism’s armed struggle – a phrase for all seasons – had come to mean, it had ended in Market Street, where the hulks of buildings groaned, glass whispered underfoot, and the forensics teams, ghostly white, prowled through the murk.

            The murders of three Catholic children weeks before had been borne, just about. But the Omagh bomb was never meant as “a response”, mere tit for tat, to the acts of Loyalist freaks. It was in the planning long before the excuse appeared. It was meant to destroy language, argument, hope, process and – not incidentally – the democratic will.

            “Politically”, the bombing was intended as an attack on the Belfast Agreement. And what did it say, “politically”? That only the self-declared “Real” IRA, that handful of career terrorists, possessed any legitimacy. No one else, least of all the people of the north of Ireland, had any rights in their own future.