The Press and Journal (Inverness, Highlands, and Islands)
Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from Yousaf meltdown
A sad break-up, but will he take Lorna Slater’s Fleetwood Mac CDs with him?
STRUAN METCALFE, MP FOR ABERDEENSHIRE NORTH EAST AND SURROUNDING NETHER REGIONS
Hello friends! It’s been, as the kids would say, “a minute”. Old Stru-Stru has, by his own admission, been pretty quiet of late. The more astute amongst you would be aware that I haven’t graced these pages since last November – that’s three whole deputy party chairmen ago!
I might have been out of the public eye, but I haven’t been idle – unlike the nation’s sick-note scroungers! No, I’ve been out on the old speaking circuit, telling it like it is in places most people wouldn’t necessarily see. The universities, Tory old-boys’ whisky dinners, the Trump campaign, and GB News.
TBH, I’ve been trying not to rock the boat. These days, it’s tricky being a Tory MP. Stick your head above the parapet and you’re likely to be implicated in some scandal or other. Honestly! You send one fruity photo and a chum’s number to a mystery WhatsApper and, before you know it, you’re on the front of The Mirror and having the whip withdrawn; and nobody wants that.
However, the events of this past week have just been too truly scrumptious for me to stay quiet. Let me tell you a story…
Once upon a time, long before I met and wed the current Mrs Metcalfe, I had a girlfriend called Hortensia. Now, how can I put this delicately? She wasn’t the most suitable filly in the paddock. Too subtle? She wasn’t necessarily the kind of girl one would take back to the family pile and introduce to the parentals.
She was “kooky” - would sometimes say odd stuff about second homes, woodburning stoves, and the hegemony of international oil companies. Yet, one tolerated it, as it’s important to have a partner. One needs someone to stroke one’s fevered brow, doesn’t one?
I won’t lie – after a while, things got a teensy-weensy bit weird. The better we got
to know each other, the less interested in me she became. She stopped asking what I thought about things and then, when I tried to help her by offering my opinions, she made the most extraordinary sound in the back of her throat - a sort of “PTCHYAAA!”
I began to feel like the way I was conducting myself was causing her to fall out of love with me. Yes, with me! I resolved to act. So, I dumped her first. And, this week, we are seeing a similar split here in Scotland. Speaking as a truly self-aware, fair-minded and collaborative politician, I am collecting my popcorn from the metaphorical kiosk and taking a front-row seat for the break-up between the SNP and the Scottish Greens! It’s like a Taylor Swift album come to life.
As a Conservative, I am bally well loving it. I smell blood. It’s like the toxic relationship between two people you can’t stand melting down in real time.
This kind of distracting human story is, frankly, hilarious. Who gets the dog? Will Patrick Harvie want to keep his SNP hoodie? Will Humza Yousaf take Lorna Slater’s Fleetwood Mac CDs?
As Humza throws himself open to the revenge of Ash Regan in next week’s
no-confidence vote, it’s as gripping as TV’s The Traitors. If he loses, who will be the new first minister? My money’s on Claudia Winkleman!
VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN WITH JOCK ALEXANDER
It’s been an equestrian wik in the village. I wiz maist concerned tae see reports o’ Household Cavalry horses running wild in London, banging into vehicles and injuring theirsels and ithers. Certainly, it wiz the mane thing on the news on Widn’sday.
Apparently, the peer creatures wiz startled by the noise fae a construction site, fan building materials wiz dropped fae a height richt next tae them. I da blame them. A sudden noise richt next tae ye can dee ’at. Mony of us in the village ken the feeling, wandering hame fae the pub efter midnight and getting a fleg fae Skittery Wullie’s prize sow oinking in the dark.
It wis affa sad tae hear that twa o’ the horses hiv had tae be operated on. I hope their condition is stables.
Some folk hiv seen the hale thing as a bad omen, fit with the horses running amok at the exact same time as Big Ben apparently stopped for nae reason. Feel Moira claims we wiz warned aboot exactly this sort o’ thing by the Osmonds years ago.
She has also said it’s proof that the aminals is rising up and jist canna be tamed. However, we suspect that’s jist an an excuse tae nae fix her fences files her coos jist wander aboot grazing on ither folk’s girse.
Luckily for the village, Meiklewartle ruminants is nae prone tae galloping aboot at high speed, and – conditioned by years of quiet isolation, sporadically interrupted by the primal screams o’ wir occasional existential crises – is nae easily startled. But ye canna be too careful. So, fae noo on, we are making sure there’s nae sheep nor coos naewye near the village pub faniver Moira is daein’ her wikend karaoke.
Feel Moira claims we wiz warned aboot this by the Osmonds