Politics

 

The MSP we all love

 

Maxwell MacLeod

 

 

This is quite possibly a unique moment in literary history in that I am now going to review a book I have never read. True, many books have been reviewed that haven't been properly read, but this is surely the first when the reviewer hasn't even sent eyes on the volume. I have however been invited to the launch party, which is on March the first, so that's a start.
     It should be a great book. It's the autobiography of Robin Harper MSP, ghost written by Fred Bridgeland, who is that well-regarded journalist who specialises in Africa and is seemingly an old pal of Robin's. Fred tells me he doesn't usually like politicians, but likes Robin very much indeed. And that's the conundrum that lies at the centre of this piece.
     Robin's resigning at this election, he's 70 so that's allowed, but this article isn't some syrupy hagiography, it's an attempt to tease out one of the most indicative phenomena of the first two parliaments. The fact that everyone loves Robin, and indeed that countless people are happy to vote for him when they probably don't have a clue what his policies are.
     Here's a wee exercise for you. Take out a bit of paper and write down the main planks of the Green manifesto. Struggling? Fair enough, so would I be. But would you vote for Robin? Like a shot probably. Me too. Now, like about half of Scotland, I regard Robin as a personal friend.
     It has led to some weird experiences. I've walked down streets with him in both Edinburgh and Glasgow and it's a bad way to get anywhere in a hurry. Most politicians are, if not loathed, certainly not trusted. Given the loving way people treat Robin he could probably tab a tenner off more people than anyone else in the land. And they would get it back. But it's about more than affection for an avuncular character, there's a need there, a yearning.
     Ten years ago when we all trooped down the Royal Mile and tried not to greet when  Sheena Wellington sang 'A man’s a man' there was a huge optimism in the country, talk of a new enlightenment, and we all agreed to ignore the bad start of a disastrous building that looked like a cross between a cheap Spanish airport and a concrete split haggis and to get oor heads doon and get on with it.

 

     Unlike many, I have been pretty impressed with some of the legislation that has come out of that building. I love the committee system and many of the other innovations and although I think that the speakers in the house should be given more time to develop their arguments I am far from regretting devolution.
     It has been the politicians that have depressed me most. We were all worried that Labour would be sending over their lumbering lard mountains from Strathclyde with their slow eyes and stabbing fingers, and over they came. Good grief, there are people in that parliament that you would hide yer weans from. And the Tories are not much better. I can think of a couple who might easily be mistaken for dismissed sheriff officers and if Scotland is ever going to be an independent nation run by the current Scottish National Party it won't just be them that will do the running.
     A parcel of rogues? I wish. More like a postvan full.
     And then there is Robin. Most politicians regard racy dressing as having a silver fleck in their nylon ties. He wears a multi-coloured scarf long enough to strangle an elephant. Most are guarded in their actions. I have seen him kiss an inflated whale.
     At the core of the man is this sense of utter decency. Fred told me a story of how someone presented him with a file on how other Green Party members had ganged up on their most adored iconic figure. But Robin spiked it. He wasn't going to start being bitter now.
     He does, however, have one bitter story and I love it.
     Many will remember the photograph of Robin staggering out of the his meeting with Alex Salmond on the day he had to negotiate whether the Greens would join his minority government. He looked like a cross between a newly castrated ram and  a political rabbit caught in the headlights of fate. Which is just what he was. 
     I asked him what had gone on inside the room. He only told one tale. Evidently, towards the end of the meeting, a frustrated Gollum had lent forward and wrapped a tentacle-like arm around Robin's shoulders, pulled his face close to his and murmured: 'The only question ye have tae ask yersel' son is this. Dae ye trust me?'.
     I trust Robin. Millions do. And that's why he’s going to be missed.

 

Sir Maxwell MacLeod is an author and journalist and founder of the
Scotland Quo Vadis website