Rab McNeil
A man among unequals 14 September 2009 I ASK you to be upstanding noo and raise a toast to an MSP. You are guffawing. You cannot think of anyone to toast? Don’t be absurd. I can think of at least two: Malcolm Chisholm (Lab) and John Farquhar Munro (Lib Dem).  As Mr Munro is characteristically dozing at the time of going to press, we will wake him another time, thence to bung him on a pedestal. Today, however, we focus on another man – or as he would prefer, person – of principle. During the recent debate about the release of Abdelbaset Ali Yada-Yada Megrahi, many citizens had differing opinions. Some wanted him released back to that Libya. Some wanted him beheaded. Some wanted him sent to Scotland’s equivalent of Siberia: a suburban bungalow in Glasgow. I say that merely as a cheap joke (sarcastic reader: “It’s a first!”), as a suburban bungalow in Glasgow is the summit of my dreams. I came somewhere in the middle of these extreme views, i.e., I favoured beheading. However, I moderate that position by adding the rider: “only if he’s guilty”. If he definitely, definitely did it, he should have rotted in jail, preferably without his heid. If he definitely, definitely didnae, he should have been sent to California, with a bag of Scottish souvenirs and a big card saying “Sorry!”, for the best medical treatment money can buy. Well, maybe not California. France perhaps, or anywhere else where morality isn’t seen in the attractive black and white tones of Americky. I can say no more than that, since logic has never been my strong suit. But suffice to say, citizens of all shades had varying views, and neighbour poked neighbour in the eyelobe as opinions were exchanged in heated debate. Behold, therefore, the sight of the Scottish political parties all voting as one and, worse, speaking as if they believed what they were saying. I’m always defending politicians against the plebs, but this was too much even for me. The sight of Liberals in particular – traditionally sympathisers with the perpetrators of crime – setting themselves up as hard men on law and order provoked mass boaking up, and also doon, the land. If Labour had been in power, one could easily have seen them making the same decision to release Mr M, while the Nats would have been hollering outrage from the opposition benches. To that extent, they’re all the same, and this turns the masses away from politics and towards enjoyment. In this sick-making scenario, only one man really stood out. Tall, statesmanlike, dignified, the Clint Eastwood of El Holyroodo arrived in the shape of Malcolm, formerly Jessie, Chisholm. He voted against his party and with his conscience. For an ex-minister, who presumably still entertains hopes of being a future minister, it was a brave stance. His chances of seeing preferment in his party have now receded as far as his hairline. It was typical of this quiet, unassuming dude whose contributions from the Labour benches remain unmarred by the hideous hatred of the SNP displayed by so many of his colleagues. I cannot remember now who dubbed him Jessie. Oh yes, it was me. It was for his feminism, which is extreme, and stems from his radical days in 1970s Edinburgh, when he wore dungarees and demanded that someone give him an abortion. As it turned out, the nearest he got was a moustache. The moustache stayed with him for years, and indignity was heaped upon indignity when he went bald. Many commentators are prejudiced against both of these diseases, and there is evidence too of institutional discrimination remaining even in this day and age. Bald people were first brought to this country by the Normans, who bred them for sport. Gradually, they became accepted as peripheral members of society, even if they were debarred from voting until the Slapheads Equality Act of 1968. Bald people were not allowed to stand for the Conservative Party until 1998 and the McLetchie Incident, when David of that ilk refused to give up his seat on a campaign bus to a more hirsute individual. Ironically, it was McLetchie’s bravery which allowed socialists like Malcolm to overcome the stigma of the disease. For a few months, I used to live in the next stair to Malcolm. Although it was a tenement, it was in a nice area, near Edinburgh city centre, and had a good chippie. I was frequently plastered in those days, which may have been why Malcolm, then health minister, never spoke to me. But other journalists said he cold-shouldered them too. Quiet, scholarly-looking, with the weight of Holyrood on the shoulders of his cheaplooking anorak, I don’t think he even had a car. If he did, it would be one that ran on tofu. Then, one day, Malcolm and I literally bumped into each other, as we were approaching the corner shop from opposite directions. Instinctively, I adopted a selfdefence posture but – at last! – he said hello. It was a defining moment and, as deepthinking men with strong ethical views, we fell to discussing the thing that mattered to us both above all else: Hibs. I would now count him as a friend. Not that I would buy him anything, or stuff like that, but I like and admire him, the bravest man in Holyrood. Related articles: Politics and principles 3 September 2010 Hello voters 25 June 2010 Off the menu 11 June 2010 Life but not as we know it 28 May 2010 Magnetic result 17 May 2010 See all articles in this category Submit a comment |
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