Rab McNeil
Life but not as we know it 28 May 2010  THE world has been stunned by the scientific breakthrough in creating synthetic life. More accurately, the world has tried several times to read articles explaining what the breakthrough is, and the world remains none the wiser. On this, for once, I am at one with the world: completely fogged. It seemed to be about bacteria. I’m reliably informed there are bacteria on my person, but I’ve never seen any. They live quite quietly and, frankly, if they’re not bothering me I’m not going to bother them. The least we can say is that mankind is on the brink of creating life. Or destroying it. I always get these two mixed up. But let’s focus on creation, in a crazily optimistic manner. Imagine if we could create a man. Imagine, if you can bear it, if we could create the ideal MSP. Let’s create them in our minds, one male, one female. What would the man be like? Well, I suppose we already have our prototype in Cleggeron, the amalgam of David Cameron, the Englishman with the Scottish name, and Nick Clegg, the Englishman with the Scottish face (sweaty). They wouldn’t do for us in their entirety. The voice would need modifying, for a start, probably to English with a heavy touch of Kelvinside or Morningside. Something middling. Nothing extreme. Or we could give him a Gaelic lilt. Either of these would be acceptable. His suit should be well-cut, traditional and conservative, and he should eschew flamboyant ties. There is a place for the flamboyant tie. It is called the bin. There’s something not quite right about the flamboyant tie. It marks the wearer out as iffy. It’s the equivalent of the bow-tie: a substitute for personality. Some otherwise sensible males sometimes wear them with the excuse that they were presents from young children. But this merely highlights the need for greater chastisement of infants, and hints that the parent may be irresponsible, and something of a jessie in the matter of discipline. In other words, a Lib Dem. As for age, we’re probably looking at the forties or fifties. The former is favoured for leaders at Westminster but, with 50 the new 40, that can safely be extended. There’s no place for anyone under 30 in Parliament. I’m not convinced that citizens under 30 should be allowed to drive, drink or vote, so the idea of them being allowed to stand for Parliament is, therefore, logically absurd. I’m willing to allow lassitude on footwear, as long as it’s black, shiny and well polished. Speaking of shiny and well polished, it would be unthinkable for our ideal MSP to be bald. Now, the female of the species. Already after writing these six words, I’m out of my depth. So let’s just say: age 30 to 50. Clothing: twin-set and pearls. Some women at Holyrood have lost the plot sartorially, turning up dressed as for a ball or some event with an African theme. This won’t do. Shoes: anything except pink. Hair: nothing outlandish, such as dreadlocks or shaven. Something bobbed perhaps. I don’t know. Once more, I feel the waters around my oxters. So much for appearances. However, although of secondary importance in the media age, what a politician does must also be considered. In terms of speaking, no one should be elected to the chamber without at least five years’ schooling in oratory. The speeches of our MSP will be a joy to the earlobe: mellifluous, effortless, peppered with wit and well-crafted words. In other words, not the cack we get at Holyrood. Our MSP always begins with humour. He or she deconstructs the opposition’s case while they’re still laughing. Three-quarters through, he starts injecting passion, and has become grave, important, statesmanlike and overwhelming. Then he sits down and reads through some papers, as if it were nothing. Heckling: well-timed, humorous interventions are welcome. But our MSP will not indulge in the bile and hateful ballyhoo that emerges from the Labour benches every Thursday lunchtime. These vulgar, graceless performances are an embarrassment and, while aimed at the hated Nats, are disrespectful of Parliament as a whole. These MSPs should be sent to Westminster to see how barracking is done properly (mind you, it hasn’t done Lord George Foulkes any good). They should perhaps spend some time with a middle-class English family, to pick up lessons on civilised behaviour. As matters stand, to them every Thursday lunchtime is Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night, and this cannot continue. Off the court, as it were, our new member should always be courteous to representatives of other parties, holding doors open for them, buying them drinks and, where the occasion demands it out of sheer politeness, sleeping with them discreetly. I’m quite taken with this whole idea and, as soon as I’ve finished this article, intend shopping on the internet for bacteria, sticking tape, test tubes, a white coat and so forth, to see if I can make it a reality. If you see a new face next term, someone who looks like he entirely belongs to the place but whom you hadn’t noticed before, don’t make him feel awkward. But do learn from him. Related articles: Politics and principles 3 September 2010 Hello voters 25 June 2010 Off the menu 11 June 2010 Magnetic result 17 May 2010 Of local interest 26 April 2010 See all articles in this category Submit a comment |
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