Sitting in the car
waiting for the ferry to Ardrossan we saw a bloke in a blue cagoule who looked just
like John Swinney.
Never one to pass up on a celebrity encounter I got out of the car and walked casually towards him. There was no one else walking on the pier, so no natural cover to camouflage my approach. Accordingly I took a wide sweep of his left flank, hoping to catch a glimpse under his hood without raising suspicion.
On the whole I’ve
found that famous people handle encounters with me very well. I don’t think
Michael Gambon batted an eyelid when he passed me in his super car on Greek
Street. Although I’m pretty sure he saw me. How can you not see
someone leaning through your open car window with an iPhone pointing at your
face? And Bill Nighey on Piccadilly. I almost knocked him off the
pavement for God’s sake, but he too managed to feign complete indifference to
my presence.
Not so John
Swinney. As I approached he turned and gave me a look that I will never
forget. In the split second our eyes connected, he punched a whole through my
firewall, hacked straight into my central nervous system and downloaded a
simple clear message: “I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” it
said, “but if you’re here for a fight, I’m ready, and I’ll win.” Liam
Neeson couldn’t have put it better.
This was no mild
mannered bureaucrat. This was a fighter,
a man brutalised by years of struggle and combative debate. A man resigned to living in a constant
state of high alert, ready at any second to fight for his life – or at least,
his corner. For a split second I
saw Holyrood for what it really was; not only a ridiculous looking building,
but a rank bear pit where only the most ruthless and battle-hardened could survive.
But then came the
postscript - quieter, deeper, more personal. Piped in almost pleadingly from behind those piercing eyes
that had seen so much that they would rather, for the moment, forget: “Not
here,” they said, “not now. I just want some peace.” But that was all
I was getting. The link was broken
and he strode back to his car.
But I realized
that however well intentioned it was there was a risk that such a move might
come across as a bit creepy. And probably not enhance the quality of John
Swinney’s day. Anyway, I wasn’t too keen on triggering the John Swinney
Auto Defence System for a second time.
And seeing what it could do when he was really cross. So I resolved to steer well clear of
him from then on.
I returned to the
car. Lacking any alternative source
of excitement, my family quizzed me about the encounter. Was it really John Swinney. Yes
it was. What was he doing? He was … being John Swinney. Did I
say anything to him? No. Did he say anything to me? No - I mean
yes. I mean … no. I was irritated and lapsed into silence. In the ninety seconds since I’d left
the car I felt I’d really got to know the man. This was no ordinary
celebrity encounter.
But then disaster struck. The tannoy announced that the ferry was
cancelled due to adverse weather conditions, and apologised if any
inconvenience had been caused.
Given that there were no roads to Ardrossan and no other boats, and that
everyone on the pier seemingly had a good reason for wanting to go there that morning,
it was hard to envisage a scenario where this wouldn’t be inconvenient. Still, we were but idle holidaymakers,
so it wasn’t such a problem to book a place on the next ferry and sidle off for
a final frolic on beach until it was time to go.
But my thoughts returned to John Swinney. And his affairs of state. Not only was he living with
the constant threat of annihilation at the hands of rampant unionists, but now
he had an awkward phone call with the boss to worry about too. Would Ms Sturgeon take a sudden squall
in the Firth of Clyde as an acceptable excuse for missing that afternoon’s
cabinet meeting? But, given my vow
of non-intervention, there was nothing I could do. It was something he’d have to face alone. So we left John Swinney on the pier in
his Peugeot.
Two and a half hours later we returned. The queue on the pier had reshuffled itself, stragglers from
the last boat merging with newcomers for the next. But the Peugeot hadn’t moved, and John Swinney was still in
it. Had he successfully evaded
public attention during the intervening hours I wondered? I couldn’t see any corpses lying on the
pier or floating face down in the sea around it, so I assumed he had.
But would the next boat sail? Had Nicola fixed the weather to afford her wayward deputy safe passage back to her side? Yes she had. The wind had dropped, we were good to go. So we drove on, unloaded ourselves into the vibrating belly of the vessel, and made the grim ascent through watertight hatches and windowless steel stairwells to the lounge deck, where we joined the customary scrum down for the vessel’s last few remaining bacon roles.
Once underway I left the family languishing in a cushioned corner of
the lounge and stepped out to take the sea air. The sunny south-facing decks were thick with hardy outdoor-types
huddled in the lee of thickly white washed boat parts. So I headed aft into the shadows to
commune with the ocean and watch Arran receed romantically.
The rear deck was largely empty, just one solitary figure pressed
against the handrail. It was
wearing a blue cagoule and before I was able to retreat the John Swinney Auto
Defence System had swung into action sending him bounding up some nearby steps
to the upper deck and to safety.
Feeling utterly wretched I headed back inside, unable to believe
that I had betrayed his trust so soon.
What would he be thinking?
Would he be calling in the Special Boat Service to neutralize this
menace that simply refused to leave him alone? That wouldn’t be too difficult: a few days earlier a line of
navel frigates had appeared from nowhere and arranged themselves at chillingly
regular intervals along the horizon.
To protect John Swinney?
I hate myself for it now, but the term ‘human shield’ did come to
mind as I retreated into the shop and took cover in a small crowd of school
children clustered round the Top Trumps stand. Here I gathered myself and considered my next move. Surely, on a ship of this size, with so
many passengers, the chance of running into John Swinney a third time was
small? I’d just have to be
vigilant. So I crept back to the lounge, keeping an eagle eye out for anything
that moved and was blue.
I crossed paths with John Swinney a further four times during the
voyage, on average, once every eight minutes. Twice in the restaurant, where I was purchasing tea and John
Swinney was coming, and then going, with a small Latte. Once, and in a prolonged way, in the
lounge, where it turned out that John Swinney’s entourage had encamped bang
opposite mine, so it was inevitable that he would return there with the aforementioned
Latte, and I’d be waiting. And
finally on the car deck, where the crew had somehow contrived to park John
Swinney’s car immediately alongside ours.
And I had never noticed.
As it turned out the crew ushered John Swinney’s car off the boat
ahead of ours. And a huge weight
lifted off my shoulders as I watched John Swinney escape onto the British
mainland.
John Swinney, forgive me.
I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I guess my story is just one of
hundreds of John Swinney stories generated that day onboard the MV Caledonian
Isles. Stories that will be told
by everyone who noticed that on Thursday 22nd October 2015 they were
on a ship with John Swinney.
But I have a feeling it isn’t a story John Swinney will tell all
that often.
@jesoverthinksit
@jesoverthinksit
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