Polite boos as the blond panto villain arrived
IT’S a muggy Edinburgh day and they have come in their tens and twenties to Bute House, Nicola Sturgeon’s official residence in Charlotte Square.
A score of Scottish Nationalists glowers amid a smattering of office workers and bewildered tourists. It is a little after 2pm and they are waiting for BoJo.
Police are lining the street. The bobbies don’t appear unduly concerned about security – after all, they outnumber the demonstrators three to one. Two ladies over my shoulder, just arrived, debate whether this is the queue for Book Festival tickets.
‘Here he comes!’ a protester bellows. He is sporting a Saltire T-shirt, is wrapped in another Saltire and brandishes a giant EU flag. He seems a reliable source but, alas, it’s a false alarm. It’s gone half-past two and still no sign of Boris. A woman behind me starts humming Ode to Joy, gesturing to her comrades to join in – but after 30 seconds the Remain chorus falls silent again.
A trickle of onlookers has swelled the crowd by a few dozen by 3pm. ‘That’s him left Holyrood now,’ a TV producer exclaims, though our hopes are dashed by a second, who chips in: ‘No, he’s only just gone in.’
The protesters are a Godsend. They break up the tedium.
A lady wielding a twin flag (pro-Scottish independence on one side, pro-Catalan statehood on the other) strides up to the police barrier and begins reading an indictment of the Tories, the British state, the media and anyone else who’s up for a fight. Deliciously, her peroration is not delivered in the usual Glaswegian twang but the most pristine, cut-glass accent the New Town has to offer.
‘F*** you, Boris Johnson,’ a voice at the back ventures. It’s the closest proceedings get to rowdy, even though by now it’s coming up to four.
Scottish Tory high command had been against the Prime Minister going to Bute House, fearing it would give him the appearance of a foreign dignitary meeting a head of state. Appropriately, Well-Spoken Lady’s elocution edict is taking the form of a series of questions to ‘Mr Johnson, the unelected leader of a foreign nation’. No one has the heart to tell her he hasn’t arrived yet. Eventually she takes the snub personally: ‘You’re very bad-mannered, Mr Johnson. Why won’t you come out and speak to us?’
From nowhere comes a giant neon-pink placard bearing the legend: ‘Save the Union. Boris will be brilliant for Scotland.’ Reinforcements have arrived. From behind the cardboard leviathan pop the white locks of an older lady, half the height of her sign. The Nationalists make way for her. It’s the most middle-class protest I’ve ever been to. The only thing missing is the Pimm’s.
Then two cars whisk into Charlotte Square and a man gets out of the second vehicle. The crowd begins to boo, then realises it’s not Mr Johnson. Just as the jeering dies down, the blond bogeyman bounds out of the first car. He waves bravely, though wisely doesn’t tarry long. On the steps of No 6, Miss Sturgeon has slipped out unnoticed. She greets Mr Johnson with a handshake and invites him inside.
The crowd – scarce 200 at its height – begins to dissipate within a minute. The PM is not well-liked in Scotland – but not disliked enough to drag people away from their back garden beer.
Still, the demonstrators were happy. ‘That showed him,’ snorted one, proudly.