TODAY I turn 65. Perhaps it is harsh to blame my parents for my birthday coinciding with St George’s Day, but when I was four years old they moved from Edinburgh to Giffnock – a part of greater Glasgow one seldom brags about coming from and, worse, a Tory-voting stronghold. How could they do that to me?

I don’t know if it’s my age or the election season or the vividness of the memory, but my mind keeps returning to an incident which took place, I reckon, on the day of the General Election of 1964.

We lived next to the primary school, a polling station on the day, and the scene of sufficient drama to capture the interest of a naive eight-year-old with nothing much to do. All around were powdered lilac ladies with steel wool hair and horn-rimmed glasses. The doyennes of the local Conservatives. Demanding respect, commanding fear assured of victory but warriors for the cause.

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In a dwam I was suddenly aware that a substantial pile of pamphlets had been thrust into my hands and I was instructed to hand one to each voter as they passed through the school gates.

I suppose I hoped to earn a few pennies to spend in the local sweetie shop and, in any case, I was too timid to refuse, so a rather tedious hour or two was spent on the task. No reward was forthcoming and foolishly I did not have the presence of mind to disappear smartish. What happened next is burned in my memory.

I often ponder whether time has exaggerated the events of that day or the trauma has erased some colour and detail to protect my sensitive consciousness. Anyhow, I remember next being bundled into a car with two or three of the aforementioned witches and whisked away to another polling station some two miles away. Kidnapped less than 20 yards from my own doorstep and my parents (loving, even though they moved to Giffnock) blissfully unaware. Once again a weighty pile of Tory bumph to distribute among the voters who, Tory or not, were not particularly thrilled to be burdened with more waste paper at that late stage.

The day was getting late, I was getting hungry and cold and I was not entirely sure where I was. My captors had long disappeared as I started my weary trudge back home. I had plenty of time on the long walk back to reflect on the injustice of my wasted day and since then the very mention of the Tory party sends a shiver down my spine. I have never voted for these appalling charlatans and I never will.

The one consolation was that although Eastwood stayed Conservative, the election was won by Harold Wilson. Ha Ha.

To the good parents of Giffnock I say: “watch your children, the Tories may still be up to their old tricks!”

Alan Cunningham
Rosyth

HAS politics always been as dirty as this, or has it only been exposed by the exponential growth of communication? The current Westminster will go down in history as the home of lies, fake news, cronyism and the second-largest unelected government house in the world (apparently with no power to change anything).

As we count down to election day for the Scottish Parliament it is clear that the Tory press and the Westminster mouthpiece known as the BBC are revving up to propagate “Independence bad” and misquote anyone who disagrees.

The independence parties in Scotland should be saturating social media to expose the myths and spin of the Unionists. This is the only way they can counter the volume of anti-independence rhetoric in the press and on the airwaves.

Mike Underwood
Linlithgow