MONDAY
THE Monday papers bring tidings of misfortune for Scottish Labour. Anas Sarwar gave an interview to the BBC’s Sunday news programme which has rocked the party to its foundations. After testing positive for Covid it seems that Anas unwisely opted to take a little-known – but perfectly legal – opioid to accelerate his recovery. It’s backfired spectacularly. A previously unknown side-effect of the treatment is that it acts as a truth accelerant when given alongside the AstraZeneca vaccine.
“So, Mr Sarwar, do you still intend to oppose the growing calls from within your party to oppose a second independence referendum?”
“Certainly not. The party has been shite for the past decade mainly because we’ve adopted a position to the right of Jacob Rees Mogg on independence. It’s time to grasp the thistle as it were.”
“So, let me get this straight. You now back independence?”
“Absolutely. I’ve seen how small countries all over the world have had their fortunes transformed by being free to plot their own destinies away from the restrictive and predatory practices of bigger states.”
“And have you discussed this with Sir Keir Starmer?”
“Why the hell should I? He can go and take a flying f*** to himself. He wouldn’t know where Scotland was on a satnav.”
“And what about your own National Executive?”
“Don’t you worry about them, Jamesy boy. My family firm knows how to look after people.”
(At this, he tapped his nose theatrically and gave an extravagant wink)
TUESDAY
THE fall-out from the Sarwar independence bombshell is off the scale. Labour have rushed out a statement alleging an elaborate nationalist plot to spike his medication after it became known that his cleaner was once a member of the outer-Stalinist Radical Independence Campaign who once did time for dealing the Bob Marley in Possilpark. Anas hasn’t been seen in public since Sunday afternoon and all calls to his mobile are going unanswered.
I take a call from Nicola. “Rupert, we need to be careful how we game this. First of all, I want to know exactly who on our side are currently self-isolating and I want an inventory of what medication they’re on.
“And I want you to put a tracking device on Jason Leitch’s car. He was one of Sarwar’s tutors at the dental school and I think he might be playing both sides against each other here as part of a bigger plot.”
I place a call to my old MI5 contact at Whitehall and solicit his help to keep tabs on our rascally National Clinical Director.
WEDNESDAY
I’M invited to lunch with Peter Murrell at Butragueño and Del Bosque, the new Spanish kitchen at the Balmoral Hotel. Peter’s never been the most effusive of chaps but today he’s speaking almost seven to the dozen and is almost affectionate.
“I’d just like to say, Rupert that I’m grateful for your help in freeing me from the clutches of that Irish horse-racing mafia. I understand too that you had a little help from some Ukrainian businessmen who used to work in Spetsnaz, (the notorious Special Forces unit of the old Soviet Union).”
“The only problem is that their gift of £600k to plug that funding gap has come with a quid pro quo.”
I’d braced myself for this. “And what might that be, Peter,” I asked him.
“Well, you know how we’re putting the Edinburgh Tramway extension out to public tender. Your Kyiv pals have stuck in a bid that’s somewhat higher than all the rest. And they want to partner with a Belarus concrete firm in Minsk owned by one of President Lukashenko’s sons. They say it will open all sorts of business opportunities for Scottish firms.”
“Well at least we know who we can get to bury any traitors,” I joked. But Peter wasn’t smiling. “This is a very delicate situation and I think I might need your help again.”
THURSDAY
I RECEIVE a call from the new Downing Street chief of staff, Nigel Accrington-Stanley. “Roops, old chap. Remember that delightful Russian gel Katarina with whom you had a little shot on the swings at Oxford?”
How could I forget? She painted my bathroom pink and bought me a fake tiger rug which startled my great aunt Greta when she came to visit one year.
“Well, listen to this: Katarina is now one of Putin’s top military attaches. Seems no-one can get to him except through her.”
My head began to swim with alluring but perilous possibilities.
“Rupert, I’ll cut to the chase. We want you to visit Moscow as one of our operatives and re-acquaint yourself with Katarina. The fate of the West might come to rest on your shady charms, you old rogue. Give my love to great aunt Greta. Does she still smoke weed from a pipe?”
The fix is in.
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