For leading a campaign demeaning and demoting Scotland, Alistair Darling is made a peer of the Realm. To retain your sanity you can only view it as a jest, his allegiance to corrupt rule made an obscenity by the elite, and all to teach Scotland its place in the scheme of things.
Darling is the one-time hard-left, protest marching politician who ended his career saving banksters from jail, and condemning the Scottish Government’s White Paper on life after 300 years of union limbo thirty minutes after its publication, all 650 pages. A case of an open mind permanently closed. As a speed reader he’s faster than the disappearance of fake goods on a Customs market raid. As a person to trust, his credibility evaporated even faster that his ability to read while preparing for a television interview.
He admits we can survive governing our own affairs but somehow thinks it ‘undesirable.’
He’s a geographically challenged Moses leading us to the same place we left.
It comes as a surprise he enjoys being detested. The impression he gave me was cardboard, a non-person, without personality, ever so slightly buttoned-up, the sort of guy who picks his teeth behind a covering hand.
I met Darling. We were alone in his constituency office for thirty minutes. He was MP for central Edinburgh. I was a constituent seeking his help to improve health and safety issues in my street where the council had failed to do anything. He failed miserably to be of help. Shortly afterwards he took over from Gordon Brown as chancellor of the UK Treasury.
I found him evasive, remote, without the slightest hint of humour.
Witty banter rolls over him like water off a duck’s back. Darling laughs only when he decides to laugh, never voluntarily. A face that needs a beard – he sported one later – he had an unnerving way of not looking at me as we talked, then turning to me slowly to shoot a disapproving glare above his glasses.
For my teenager years my mother only ever ventured one single piece of advice on assessing character: “Never trust a man who cannot look you straight in the face, and never trust a woman who can.” That seemed pretty good advice at the time and has stood the test of time.
Darling failed on both counts.
He wore a fluorescent white jacket, standard issue hair shirt and black silk tie, framing those dancing hairy caterpillar eyebrows in expensive bend-them-to-buggery-and-back, titanium-nickel spectacles.
Disconcertingly, rudely, he kept turning his back as we talked for reasons I cannot explain – I don’t suffer from bad breath or sweaty feet – he attended to superficial matters, his focus undisciplined: shifting a pen from desk top to desk drawer, rearranging papers, hunting in his briefcase for something or other, perhaps the last of a bacon sandwich.
When he spoke that mean mouth always returned to a tight pout, an instinctive reaction to swallow his words. Was he listening to me? Maybe I was last in a long day’s queue and he wanted to get home. Who cares?
I found him heavy going. Mean.
I trust he’ll return to his home in London. Who can bear his endless half-truths, lies, petulance, and bleating, or take his half-mad stare?
He is the only man I know who can light up a room by leaving it.