I HAVE not been very well. Gordon Brown said not to throw out any food. Fine, I thought, we can be frugal. Invigorated with wartime spirit, I had a rummage around in the bottoms of various cupboards. I think it was those peeling tins of corned beef that did for my lower colon. They were there as emergency rations since we last invaded someone. It’s not that long ago.
Our nation, we are told, is made up of two societies – the haves and the have-nots. If we cannot now even chuck out any food, it will be the have-trots and the have-not-got-trots. Parents and teachers still bawl at youngsters to eat their greens. Now it is G. Brown Esq, who each day looks more like a flailing schoolmaster ordering us all to keep our greens. And our bread crusts. And shake every drop out of that ketchup bottle.
Which all reminds me that I met one of my old teachers the other day. Actually, I had better rub that out and put instead that she is one of my former teachers. Otherwise, I could be sent to stand in the corner. Although a lady of deserved leisure nowadays, having given up her second career as a Gaelic radio political pundit and analyst only recently, Mrs Zena Nicoll still has about her that air of quiet “don’t mess with me” authority, just as she did in Gaelic and history classes.
Since her days inspiring us pimply, long-haired yoofs, she mysteriously and completely transformed from gown-clad purveyor of homework into an unexpectedly barnstorming political activist. The steely determination, a prerequisite for both roles, helped.
It should have been no surprise to discover that she was an all-guns-blazing, union-bashing, privatising Tartan Tory.
Sadly for her and her fellow-blues, and happily for the conscience of the islands, their association meetings could have been held in a Stornoway phone box.
The most ardent Thatcherite in the Hebrides, on air and off, Mrs N would loudly rue the day that Mrs T had been deposed by a bunch of lily-livered male fainthearts. That’s as close a translation as I can recall of her summary in Gaelic of that ultimate betrayal.
On Friday, Mrs N greeted me, not with a “how are you?” or “are you well?” but by demanding to know what illegal activities I concerned myself with nowadays. Eek. It presupposed that I was, and had been previously, some sort of vagabond. That old, forgotten fear of extra homework rose up from my nether regions and reduced me to a quivering wreck.
Er, I was still writing bits here and there, I think I squeaked. In desperation, I seized on the subject of politics. What a mess Wendy leaves Scottish Labour in, we agreed. The Scottish Lib Dems? Who would succeed their newest former leader? They all have such back-to-front names: Stephen Nicol, Finnie Ross, Scott MacTavish. Enough said. Nor was any case advanced for Annabel Goldie.
Mrs N fears for the political longevity of Gordon Brown and, quite possibly, David Cameron, too. With that deep sigh, so well practised by Tories since 1997, she uttered the immortal line: “Ah, if only we had Maggie back again,” with a sweet smile of longing and fond memory. My jaundiced soul was somehow caressed by those heartfelt words of regret.
As her lamentations resonated around the inner recesses of my psyche, I felt that old familiar moist, warm glow spreading all over my lower body. But I had only spilled the tea in my lap.
In this uncertain, ever-changing world, Mrs N’s sincere words strangely reassured me. There is still stability to be found and crazy, unfashionable stances are taken by a dwindling few. Yet some things should always remain the same if sanity is to prevail. Had I not heard her refrain of regret for that dreaded old dragon who, I believe, decimated thriving British industries, vaporised workers rights, betrayed the rights of womenkind and personally delivered a new low in greed culture, I would have fretted for my erstwhile educator.
To each, his or her own. A cold compress on my fevered brow, her unstinting loyalty soothed me. An enduring faith in and support of someone she admired for so long is fantastic. Even as we spoke, the unreliable nature of politics elsewhere saw events take an unexpected and drastic turn in Glasgow East. Labour was catapulted into even more disarray.
As dustbin-denier Brown lurches towards inevitable ignominy and betrayal himself, we should celebrate the determined diehards, the unapologetic activists and proud proclaimers who toil for parties and leaders. If he had a few people like Mrs Nicoll in his corner, the dour man’s memory would be kept all the fresher.
Published in the Press and Journal on July 9, 2008
