Whiplash

I’ve been somewhat distracted over the last few weeks from putting finger to keyboard and producing a post or two for the itisintruth.. blog by the horrific events taking place in Ukraine (and the possibilities of thermonuclear oblivion). Also I haven’t been too much minded about paying attention to the goings on in our ain wee pond, the pond we many progressive independence-minded Scots seem unable to climb out of, and are becoming increasingly frustrated about.

However the latest backflipping triple somersault with full twisted red-neck of wee Ross Murray of Douglas, London’s other man in Scotland, (the one that the likes of Jacob-Rees Moth, the living epitome of Horace and Hen Broon combined, are allowed to undermine and make fun of because he doesn’t have a nice weekend gaff in the country for blowing Scottish wildlife out of the sky like the other fella) has brought me out of my self-imposed frightened stupor. The other fella of course being the chap who replaced the Viceroy of Joy, Davie Mundell, Alister Jack, an individual who appears to have the personality of drying emulsion.

Douglas surely must have a bad case of whiplash or at least bruised a couple of vertebrae in his lower back, after that full brakes on, spinning wheeled U-turn on his views about his leader in London. A U-turn worthy of his predecessor, before she swapped straddling pieces of heavy artillery on Challenger tanks for ‘The Record’s’ photographers for the benches of ermine.

It was only other week Dougie was displaying what looked almost like a chin. This during all of that unseemly stuff about Johnson and his cronies loudly shouting the word “Pairty!” at the drop of a hat every other day in the corridors of government, whilst the rest of us were stuck in the hoose, isolated and separated from loved ones struck by the virus, gravely and sometimes fatally ill, innocents left alone in their last hours. Remember that? A of that has kinda of got lost amongst the frantic hiding of government ministerial connections to Russian oligarchs, dodgy contributions and high-altitude bombing runs over Kyiv.

Doogie was angry, vexed, disappointed, ashamed (particularly at the thought of old Bawjaws singing “Oops Upside Yer Head “on the Downing Street karaoke machine whilst leading the assembled party interns in the physical motions of rowing a boat) that such a thing should happen. ‘Go Prime Minister, you must go, and never darken our doorstep again you Bounder,’ wailed Doogie, or something along that vein.  He even put it in writing to the grey-suit brigade of the 1922 Committee. 

Now? Now in Doogie’s eyes Boris Johnson has somehow transformed into some sort of hybrid of Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington and Winston Churchill. A a leader for our times, a safe pair of hands in a world crisis, a man whose diplomacy and ability to persuade and influence others knows no bounds. The letter to the 1922 Committee has been recalled and ripped up.

The fella has surely taken too many sudden unexpected trips to the ground on the touchline after tripping over near stationary footballs which mysteriously rolled into his patch during SPL matches he has officiated in. He’s clearly lost it.

I could stand in the middle of Falkirk Bus station and pick five people at random waiting for the X37 bus (Glesca via Condorrat) and you could guarantee that you’d find at least one in amongst them capable of being a better wartime leader of a country than Boris Johnson, or even just better at tying shoe laces than him, which would be enough.

We’re at a strange highly dangerous juncture for the western world and beyond at the moment. Many scenarios could be played out. Many alliances could develop, escalation in the conflict is only a badly aimed rocket away, outcomes are unclear. Death and wholesale misery are being visited upon a European nation, in glorious High Definition. Horrific.  Boris Johnson? Really? A Leader? In a crisis? We’ve seen how that goes before.

Independence cannae come quick enough.’