Frank, to a point: Nicola Sturgeon's memoir shows a politician more concerned with positioning than principle

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 

It was inevitable that this famous line from Maya Angelou would find its way into Nicola Sturgeon’s memoir. 

It appears on page 302 of Frankly, as she recalls her speech from Bute House, intended to reassure EU citizens in Scotland after the Brexit vote. 

Their plight was not her immediate thought when the result landed. Her first instinct was political rather than personal: to mitigate economic damage, stabilise markets and demand that Scotland’s Remain vote be respected. 

She spoke first to Mark Carney, the Bank of England governor, to David Cameron, the soon-to-be outgoing prime minister, and to Labour’s Kezia Dugdale, with whom she sought common cause. 

It was a senior civil servant, Ken Thomson, who that morning reminded her: “Many people who had come to live in Scotland from elsewhere in Europe would also be feeling deeply insecure.” 

His advice shaped her televised words, delivered with skill as she looked directly into the camera: “You remain welcome here, Scotland is your home, and your contribution is valued.” 

The speech made an impact across Europe, raising awareness of Scotland’s predicament and enhancing her own standing. 

Sturgeon cites it as proof of her governing philosophy.

“Emotional intelligence is much talked about, but very few politicians ever take the time to develop or demonstrate it,” she writes. 

“In my view, it is the single most important quality for a leader to possess.” 

This assertion frames her as a different kind of politician, less adversarial and more empathetic than the alpha males who crossed her path. But does history, or Frankly, bear that out? 

The memoir is written in a confessional tone. Sturgeon repeatedly contrasts her poised public persona with an inner life dominated by self-doubt. From the time she was a teenage activist, taken under the wing of party stalwarts, she was haunted by “imposter syndrome.” 

I was struck by her description of her childhood and how it resonated with my own. We grew up in the same kind of pebble-dash Scottish Special public housing, we shared the same love of escape to the Clyde coast – she to her grandparents’ house in Dunure, me to the Inverkip shore where my dad kept his boat. 

I recognise the bullying and isolation she experienced, and the shyness she struggled to overcome. 

But there comes a point when you leave the wounds of your childhood behind and accept that professional success brings privilege. Achieving your goals should build confidence and generosity of spirit. 

Frankly portrays a woman who is complex, diligent, and self-critical. We are encouraged to conclude this makes her more sympathetic. But insecurity at the top can manifest just as easily as ruthlessness and paranoia, micro-management and an obsession with image control.

The book suggests Sturgeon, from an early age, was driven by a desire for validation and was pitiless should anyone step in her path. 

Most of the media coverage and reviews dwell on recent events such as Covid, the Salmond affair, and the criminal investigation into SNP finances. Frankly reminds us of earlier incidents that shed light on her character, and not much of it is flattering. 

She describes Roseanna Cunningham as “my closest friend” in the 1990s. Yet she still backed John Swinney over Cunningham when Alex Salmond resigned as SNP leader in 2000, then usurped her role as his deputy.

“In being so single-minded about my own career advancement, I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions for our friendship, and I regret it,” she admits. That regret sits oddly alongside her statement that “ruthlessness was compensation for my insecurity”. 

Swinney was brought down in 2003 by what Michael Russell memorably called “the men in grey kilts”. Sturgeon also hastened his departure with a newspaper article about the SNP’s failings. 

Cunningham looked set to beat her in the subsequent leadership contest, but was again out-manoeuvred when Sturgeon withdrew to run on a joint ticket with Salmond. This meant she would lead opposition at Holyrood while he was in Westminster.

There’s a revealing admission in the book about her inaugural clash at FMQs with Jack McConnell, then Labour first minister. McConnell had ample ammunition to attack her as “Salmond’s puppet”. But Gentleman Jack chose to go high, even sending a note of encouragement after their first clash.

Sturgeon writes: “Jack had decided that he was going to treat me with respect as opposition leader and eschew jibes about me not really being in charge. Maybe he was worried about sounding sexist and bullying if he was constantly taunting me about a man pulling my strings. Whatever the reason for it, his decision allowed me to establish myself, and then gradually get the better of him.” 

She repeatedly complains of sexism in the book, but when McConnell treats her respectfully she seems to dismiss him as weak. That must be her alpha female talking.
Sturgeon did seek to develop an empathetic brand as first minister. But it was used selectively. She extended understanding and forgiveness only to those she saw as her people.

I have written elsewhere about her obsession with gender self-identification. In Frankly she claims she only became aware of the strength of feeling in 2022. 

But back in 2019, parliamentarians including junior ministers challenged the policy in an open letter. She chose not to listen. She claims to respect the views of women who oppose it, but insidiously invites comparisons with the extreme right, even though many gender-critical feminists are from the left. Such underhand insinuation is a recurring device in this book.

There are buckets of empathy in Frankly for trans-identifying males, always described as “a stigmatised minority”. There is none for women forced to share changing rooms or prisons, for girls losing out in sport, or those persecuted for speaking up.  

Her intransigence on this issue appears myopic. But it might also be cynical, designed to solicit approval from her chosen tribe, the hyper-liberal elite for whom this issue denotes moral superiority. This is now a global grouping, perhaps one where Sturgeon sees her future.
Covid provides further examples of selective empathy. Her Chief Medical Officer Catherine Calderwood broke lockdown rules but Sturgeon was reluctant to sack her, only doing so after pressure. In Frankly she praises Calderwood’s questionable public health expertise and calls her a pal. 

Contrast this with the brutal treatment of those outside the magic circle. Michelle Thomson, an MP elected in 2015, was the subject of a critical press report about her former business. She was never charged with any offence but Sturgeon immediately and ruthlessly suspended the whip. Thomson fought back and is now an MSP.

Mark McDonald, a junior minister, fared worse. Accused of harassment in 2016, he was expelled from the party. After a long investigation, the only proven harassment charge was an off-colour text, but by then the father of two young children had lost everything. Better that than Sturgeon lose face. 

Which brings us to Alex Salmond. She devotes an entire chapter to him and makes much of their past friendship, but offers little insight into it.

She does recall the Abdul Rauf affair in 2010, when she as deputy first minister wrote an ill-judged court reference for a fraudster. Salmond knew she had erred but refused her resignation and defended her publicly and ferociously.

In Frankly, she claims his bullish support made matters worse, crediting her own apology for saving her career. It’s the kind of sneaky aside which permeates the book. 

She threatened resignation shortly after he stood by her during the Rauf scandal. Without any irony, she describes how she threw a strop when she feared losing face over a budget dispute. She seems quite oblivious to the selfishness of this behaviour, just months before the 2011 election. It’s not something she would have tolerated as FM.

There is no sympathy here for Salmond, with Sturgeon denying any conspiracy to bring him down. She continues to criticise his behaviour, though he was acquitted of all criminal charges and her government’s internal investigation was struck down by the Court of Session as unlawful and biased. Frankly concludes glibly that she was “doing the right thing” on behalf of complainants. History may yet record otherwise. 

To sell the book, she pushed ‘teaser’ lines ahead of publication, designed to give his corpse a further kicking. 

There’s her preposterous suggestion that he might have leaked the allegations against himself to the Daily Record, dismissed by everyone including the journalist who wrote the story. Again, sneaky, but isn’t that a mark of insecurity? 

She seeks to traduce his political achievements, claiming he had not read the 2014 independence White Paper, the delivery of which was her responsibility. She must have known opponents would seize on this line, to not just discredit Salmond, but the independence cause. Still, it likely shifted a few hundred copies and secured her more exposure on the UK broadcast networks. 

Nicola Sturgeon wants to be remembered for her emotional intelligence. Frankly shows something else: self-doubt hardened into ruthlessness. It reveals a leader whose professed empathetic style is highly selective – and more about positioning than principle. 

To paraphrase her inspiration, Maya Angelou, one has to ask: “Will you remember how Nicola Sturgeon made you feel?” For too many of us, the only appropriate response is, frankly, “get the door”. 

Frankly by Nicola Sturgeon is published by Macmillan