THERE’S a lot aboot Scottish politics ah dinnae haud wi nooadays, but this new rule that every pairty needs tae hae a Designatit Numptie is shuirly yin o the warst. Whit wis wrang wi the auld system, when Murdo Fraser actit as a bi-partisan bawheid for the hale pairliament – a tidy, wan-man representative o the segment o the Scottish electorate wha dice wi death ilka time they turn on a microwave or tie their ain shoelaces?

In this wad-be Gowden Age o belt-tichtenin an resoorce-poolin, it seems gey uncívil tae me tae duplicate Murdo’s guid wark like this, wi every pairty giein a rin-oot tae at least wan MSP whase every attempt tae frame a coherent thocht is a tear-jerkin portrayal o man’s will tae triumph. The Lib Dems hae Alex Cole-Hamilton; Labour, Neil Findlay (Richard Leonard is mair o a tumshie than a numptie); an the Conservatives… weel, they micht no boast awfy muckle in the wey o social or racial diversity, but there isnae a failure o the intellect or the imagination that’s no blythely personified bi somebody or ither on the Tory backbenches.

When did the Numptie demographic become sae crucial tae Scottish politics, that oor pairliament should hae mair mad skulls than minorities, mair wide-ohs than women? Cause there’s sowt aboot this global fetishisation o ignorance that is peculiarly masculine in its aspects. That’s naethin new, like. “Ah didnae ken…” an “Ah wisnae awaur…” hiv killed mair fowk this past hunner years than ony terrorist. Fae Vietnam tae Grenfell, the establishment hae lang uised plausible deniability as a wey tae haud ontae pouer whilst ootsoorcin responsibility. But these past few years hiv seen that phenomenon evolve, like some fresh brand o typhoid, intae the notion o implausible deniability – the political imperative for naethin a body says tae incorporate ony element o truth or even provability, the severin o the final tethers atween rhetoric an reality that keepit balloons like Ross Thomson fae jist floatin aff intae the cloods.

Awbody kens – when it cams tae wilful illiteracy in politics, Trump is a black hole that’s steadily collapsin. Naethin new can be said that disnae wind up swirlin aroond the chiel an gettin sooked doon intae the daurk dense depths o his incomprehension. The verra idea o provable fact is fawin tae bits a few thoosand miles awa, an it’s easy no tae notice the ripples o it wirkin aroond oor ain feet, the hairline cracks that are openin up richt aneath us – whether it’s yer local cooncillor shoutin the odds aboot a closed library he votit against savin, or the sorry spectacle o a Prime Mínister clingin desperately tae ony passin lie that’ll keep her heid above the watter for anither twa-three meenits… an aw ower the warld, it’s the loons wi the shairpest elbaes an the dullest minds that are comin guid, fowk wi nae abilities at aw except a perverse kind o anti-genius for no kennin onythin they dinnae absolutely need tae ken in order tae survive, swith-muivin cairpet-baggers unencumbered bi thocht or feelin, bottom-feeders o the maist literal an metaphorical kind.

Ah thraw ma hauns up in despair at it, this hale breuken system an the glaikit performance o it we’re treatit tae at Holyrood… an ah’d walk awa fae it awthegither, gang live oot ma days on a traffic island aff the Uddingston bypass, if it wisnae for Nicola Sturgeon.

Luik – ah’ve been listenin aw ma life tae the proclaimed guid intentions o pouerfu men, the celebrations o their laudable ideals, the special pleadin for their mistaks. But if politics is the art o the possible, as they say in West Kilbride, whit business hiv men bein onywhaur near it? Everythin in ma life that is possible has been makkit possible bi the wark an sacrifices o women. Three cheers for men an their magníficent “ideals”, thae debts against some ither body’s accoont, thae fushionless stories they tell aboot theirsels tae stap fae bein rin oot o the kintrae on a rail… but when the Provvy wumman cam roond oor hoose at the end o the week, it wis never ma Da wha wis answerin, pit it like that.

God knows ah’m as reluctant as the next chiel tae say a guid wird aboot a body… an the deification o “the fairer sex” has aye been anither sleekit wey for men tae pit women on a nice, hie shelf whaur they cannae get up tae ony mischief. Sae ah’m no here tae propose the First Mínister as Mither o Dragons or ocht like that.

Ah’m bi nae means as weel-geared tae offer the final wird on Nicola Sturgeon as ma y-chromosomes mak me think ah am. Yet anent a militaristic backdrap o posture-strikin an self-evasion an misogynistic Twitter pile-ons, Nicola Sturgeon daes whit the women that raised ma generation hiv ayeweys duin, while their men were busy blowstin doon pubs, or rakin throu middens for medals tae haun theirsels – she daes the job. An no jist the job o the nation, but the job o hersel, o bein a person in the warld wi standards an self-respect an a biography devoid o excuses. Ye’ll never catch her lettin on no tae ken somethin, or hidin fae her better self ahint a couch, or dumpin her responsibilities ontae somebody else like a ton o bricks. In a warld full o Yer Das, Nicola Sturgeon is Yer Maw.

Meantime, Donald Trump’s lawyers are fawin ower theirsels tae keep the chiel aff the testimony staun, cause they ken fine weel he’ll nae suiner hae planked his totey haun on an innocent Bible than he’ll be reelin aff a pack o lies left, richt an centre, perjurin himsel up tae the oxters tae nae obvious advantage an for nae reason at aw than that he’d raither tell an ootricht slander than admit tae no bein shuir o sowt… An whit Donald Trump isnae shuir o, as they say in Auchendinny, wad fill a warehoose.

Cause it’s the things he disnae ken he disnae ken that are apt tae see The Donald livin oot his final days as president in a beach-hoose in the poorin rain, watchin the impeachment proceedins on a 14 inch telly wi a coathinger for an aerial… An if the immediate consequences o oor ain lot’s vogie ignorance are likely tae be less personally devastatin for thaim – there’ll aye be jobs gawin at Farmfoods – they’re still sowin a whirlwind the rest o us are gonnae hiv tae reap. It’s the things ye dinnae ken that’ll kill ye – no the horror lourin on the horizon, but the unforeseen shortfaw, the unpredictit catastrophe – an if the sky is aboot tae drap on aw oor heids, nae nummer o Findlay an Fraser’s upraised flags are gonnae tak the sting oot o it.

Weel, aye. It’s a sair fecht awricht. An yet… bi some pliskie o fate, in a global system creatit explicitly tae prevent it, here we are, alane awmaist amang nations, wi a political leader wha has read mair buiks than she’s written, wha thinks that thinkin matters, an that even the kittliest o facts are chiels that winna, canna ding. Hell mend us aw if we’re no the same, an ettlin ilka day tae mak yer Ross Thomsons an Alex Cole-Hamiltons the warst o us, raither than the norm. “Free or a desert” – it’s a bonnie slogan, richt eneuch. Still, some things are as true o minds as they are o nations.