Ruth Wishart: Good breeding? This lot would not know the meaning of the phrase

Been a bit like that, this last week. Scared to turn off the news in case of another ­scandal, another prince of the realm getting the pips torn from his shoulders, another top tennis star getting deported from the courts, or another politician perfecting his Norman Wisdom turn.

Jings, crivvens and help everyone’s Boab, it’s been one hell of a seven days.

If there’s been a theme, a thread which runs through all this, it’s that it’s never a good idea to trust anyone who self styles themselves one of your “betters”.

Fact is there are good folks and dodgy ones and they come in all shapes, and sizes; from all backgrounds. Take ­Andrew (though there’s not exactly a queue). Brought up to think he was the bees’ knees, in a ­household where flunkeys were ­supposed to defer to anyone of royal birth, whether or not they were a tantrum throwing two-year-old.

A man, like his family, who used to turn out in fancy dress sporting enough medals to start a military museum, and enough gold braid to fence off the VIPs at ­Glastonbury. I mean would you just look at the snaps taken on the Buck House ­balcony. You wouldn’t let your own wean be seen in ­public like that.

By all accounts, here is a man with too guid a conceit of himself, who swanned round the world as a supposed “trade ­emissary”. Like some others from his clan, he broke bread with a number of “royal” families and assorted dictators in this somewhat opaque role.

Plus, he used expensive flying ­transport for vital appointments like his next ­foursome at St Andrews.

As we know, his taste in friends ran to the exotic, and his devotion to the concept of droit de seigneur allegedly applied to many aspects of his life. Or so an ­American court will decide should the prince ­formerly known as “randy Andy” not ante up a ­sizeable pre-trial settlement. Personally I’m hoping the Guiffre woman spurns the dosh in favour of her day in the witness box.

Which brings us to the dramatis personae at 10 Downing Street otherwise known as party central. Except in the esteemed pages of the New Yorker who deemed it an ­“unlikely speakeasy” for the well ­connected. Global Britain, eh?

Some journalists who partook ­hospitality at assorted shindigs were apparently struck down with selective amnesia in the months before someone broke cover. Hi there, Dom.

Attendees like the current number two at the Sun, formerly the PM’s communications bod and a previous staffer at the Daily Mail, who apparently woke up on Friday with a sudden recollection of ­making whoopee in the PM’s basement.

Should your name be, to take a random example, Sue Gray, you won’t run into Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson this weekend, I’m afraid, as the poor chap is isolating in respect of a family member having tested positive.

As it happens, this is no longer a ­requirement. But BJ, ever the rebel, ­decided it was more fun to break real rules and obey a non existent one. What a card. What a joker. What a joke.

It’s not necessary to re-rehearse all the reasons why you have to check the ­window when Boris says it’s dry outside; everyone who has every worked with/for him knows what a fully paid up chancer he is.

And that includes those who have gone on record attempting to defend the quite obviously indefensible. Which brings me, somewhat reluctantly, to the risible figure of Jacob Rees-Mogg.

Here’s another chap suffering from silver spoon in the mooth syndrome. ­Another old boy from that educational ­establishment which has churned out a slew of dodgy characters who still manage to have greatness thrust upon them.

No, strike that. Who still manage to ­convince people that being a toff and ­being a sentient, intelligent, ­compassionate human are completely interchangeable states. Boy, do we know better now.

Yet Jacob is not without his uses. Where else would you find a politician who could, at a stroke, unite the entire, ­often quite fractious, Holyrood ­parliament. To a woman and a man, they think he’s a complete dick.

As we know, his latest party trick was to go on Newsnight, and describe Douglas Ross as a lightweight of no consequence, and Alister Jack as a contrasting Tory of real substance. As own goals go it’s right up there with a Celtic or Rangers striker putting the ba’ past their ain goalie.

It will not be a surprise to learn I’m not a member of the Douglas Ross fan club. However he did find it in himself to ­resign when Dominic Cummings tried to ­convince the lieges that driving to and from Barnard Castle was the most ­effective eye test available. While his ­missus, with her own licence, was about his person.

And, though serially voting with his Tory bosses on a raft of measures which will further impoverish the poor, he did make good on his statement that if the PM was partying during lockdown he would have to resign.

Compare and contrast with ­upmarket farmer Alister Jack, who finally ­contrived to become an MP in the 2017 snap ­election. Mr Jack did not go to Eton; he went to Glenalmond which is a sort of ­tartan variant on the boarding school ­experience, though it has daringly gone co-ed since young Alister’s day.

But I digress. The main point is that though Jack, at his masters’ behest, has created a hugely expensive UK ­Governement hub in Edinburgh, (first of two) and spent vast sums on, inter alia, new communications teams – he must be amongst the most anonymous politicians in Scotland.

Only in the fevered mind of Rees Mogg could he be described as a substantial ­figure. In addition to which the role of Secretary of State is utterly redundant in a country which has an actual parliament.

In days gone by Scottish Secretaries had to juggle all manner of departmental responsibilities. Now they just juggle the money Michael Gove gives them to bribe local authorities in direct contravention of the devolution settlement.

In days gone by Scottish Secretaries were Scotland’s representative in the UK cabinet. The current incumbent is the cabinet’s fifth columnist in Scotland. And one with an expensive taste in Trojan horses.

Despite all of which, Mr Jack is a ­household name only in his own ­household.

However his appointment is all of a piece with those of his more kenspeckle colleagues. Only in Borisworld could the once “great offices of state” now be ­occupied by so many duffers. Not even to mention the other cabinet roles.

When the culture portfolio is given to Nadine Dorries then you know irony is not just dead, but buried more than six feet down.

So that was the week that was. At the end of which the world’s most prominent anti-vaxxer sportsperson, may or may not be winging his way back to ever cuddly Serbia. At the end of which the Scottish Tory conference this Spring may feature many turns, but one will not apparently be delivered by the Prime Minister of the UK.

Bit tricky trying out your best gags on folks who can’t wait to see the back of you.

The moral of all of which stories is that breeding only matters when it ­involves being brought up with a proper sense of values. With a grasp of personal ­morality, and without a sense of personal ­entitlement.

“Good breeding” is not about money, or family estates, or castles or coronets. The lack of it has never been more ­evident.