AS today is one of those days of the week that possesses a Y, somewhere a Scottish Tory will be furious about something. Usually this means (in no particular order) Gypsies, Catholics, Muslims, migrants, refugees, homosexuals, bi-sexuals, trans-sexuals, sexuals, single mums, double mums, mums, non-mums (non-mums really do need to get the finger out). Outrage about the tattoo-wearing community; fortune-tellers, belly-dancers and men with ponytails is being considered. Loki, Lesley Riddoch, Frankie Boyle, Gerry Sadowitz and Mowgli will all in future be required to watch their step.

Throughout all of these outbreaks of Tory opprobrium the party’s leader Ruth Davidson had, until last week, shown admirable restraint. Then it was revealed that she was, in the words of her biographer, “f***ing furious” with The Vow, that fabled scrap of parchment which ensured that there would after all be a second referendum on Scottish independence.

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It seems that when Davidson was shown the cigarette packet on which The Vow had been scribbled she was dismayed and phoned her boss David Cameron immediately. “David, you assured me that it would be a packet of Benson & Hedges Gold that The Vow would be written on or, at the very least, 20 Pall Mall. Writing it on the back of a packet of 20 Kensitas Club sends out all the wrong messages.”

Ordinarily, a biography of Ruth Davidson would be expected to come it a novella size; perhaps even a collection of (very) short stories. So, it’s clear that her hapless biographer has his work cut out trying to fill it. Obviously there will be a chapter about her rise to the top reading other people’s reports on the BBC out loud. And then there will be her fierce inner struggle trying to reconcile her Sunday School Christian upbringing with her growing sense of Toryism. Her adventures playing paintball in the Campsie Hills with her local Territorial Army Unit is simply ripe for the retelling.

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And then of course there was that memorable day following the local council election results. That’s when the initial euphoria about all the Tory gains gave way to a silent scream as she discovered just what the cat had brought in. According to a dubiously placed source, Davidson exclaimed in horror: “It’s like Night of the Living F***ing Dead.”

I can also exclusively reveal that there will be a chapter and possibly two on the first independence referendum. Another source at Davidson’s publisher has sent me this early and rough draft. As you will no doubt notice, it borrows very heavily from the wartime chronicles of AJP Taylor and Erich Maria Remarque. That she has chosen (wisely in my opinion) to write this in diary form increases the sense of immediacy and ratchets the feeling of drama and jeopardy right up to 11.


I RISE at 6am prompt and reach for my TA battle fatigues. The regiment has just made me their honorary colonel and words can’t express my pride at my enhanced status.

Soon I am tucking in to a hearty but sustainable breakfast of kedgeree washed down by a NutriBullet smoothie of alfalfa crepes and Nutella. Gosh … is that the time? Must dash. I need to be at Labour Party HQ for an 8am briefing.

Yuck … I literally have to hold my nose as I walk through the front door of Labour’s Glasgow headquarters up near Blythswood Square. It’s true what they say: there really is beer and sandwiches, but it’s immediately obvious it’s last week’s booze and comestibles. I resolve to offer them my domestic Katarina to fumigate the place.

I really am jolly excited. Today we are to be joined by Gordon himself. I’ve always had a secret crush on him and imagined him as Heathcliffe striding through the Kirkcaldy heather to rescue me his darling Catherine. “More like King f***ing Lear”, one of the truculent Glasgow Labour activists says, uncharitably.

First, though, we receive reports from the front line of the referendum war and it’s becoming clear that there is bloodshed and wailing and gnashing of teeth on the streets of Scotland because of this nasty and divisive referendum. Poor Jim Murphy looks like Lurch from the Addams Family and it’s clear he’s had a torrid time. He tells us of a terrifying experience with a group of feral elderly women at a Coatbridge coffee morning who tried to smother him in Yes stickers. “And when I tried to order something nice to go with my with fruit scone they handed me a bottle of Buckfast,” he told me. “It was naked intimidation.”

Now Gordon is getting to his feet and I’m so excited, but it’s clear that he’s in a foul mood. “What the f**k do you think you’re all f***ing playing at? This is a fucking clusterf**k of f***ing epic proportions. F***ing Salmond is running away with this.

“See you Murphy, if you don’t start getting your act together pronto I’ll decorate my f***ing Christmas tree with your entrails and donate your brain to the monkey research centre. Intimidation? I’ll f***ing intimidate you, ya rocket.”

I am shocked yet thrilled at the same time and resolve to send Gordon a note inviting him as a guest speaker to the Territorial Army motivational breakfast in New Cumnock next weekend. I put my hand up and ask for permission to speak. I propose that we draft in a UN peace-keeping force to protect Better Together activists and furthermore that we impose a dawn-to-dusk curfew in the east end of Glasgow with security checkpoints all along the Shettle Town and the Houses of Easter.

Jim draws me a dark look and says “Sweet Mother of God and all that’s holy.” I think he likes it. Clever me.

We’ve got our orders for the day and mine are to judge a home-baking competition at a care home in Newton Mearns.

However I hear disturbing reports of people being turned away from this lovely old parkland building by burly OAPs if they say they don’t support a certain party. It’s this sort of anarchy that has become characteristic of the Yes-supporting hordes and is a sign of things to come if we become independent.

I decide I’ve had enough and that it’s No More Mrs Nice Gal. I resolve to locate the crusty miscreants and tell them that matron will get the bath brush and shove it up their decrepit jacksies if they don’t cut it out. I can’t wait to hear what Gordon has to say when he hears of my intervention. He’s sure to approve.

Excerpt taken from Home in Time for Tea: The Diary of Ruth Davidson (aged 39 and three quarters).