ME FIRST. HOW THE LIBDEMS WORK FOR THEIR CONSTITUENTS

I caught a delayed flight from Orkney to Aberdeen, last Monday morning. 
 In front of me sat  Big Al Carmichael, 

 

currently the local MP, now facing a legal challenge to his election  in May last. 
 Carmichael, by his own admission, lied when he insisted that he had not leaked  misleading information about Nicola Sturgeon, MSP,  but maintains, lamely, that this was a political lie, not a real one and so he should not be unseated; 

 

 a crowd-funded campaign, however, supported by many of his constituents - although not by myself - has taken the matter to an Edinburgh court.

A couple of rows behind me sat Lord Jim Wallace, 

 

formerly LibDem holder of the seat which Carmichael now considers his own property.  


As an MSP and deputy leader of the Labour-LibDem Holyrood Coalition, Wallace was a disastrous justice minister, memorably, for her hurt feelings, paying a Scottish police sergeant three-quarters of a million pounds of my money. Wallace had presided over a bungled forensic criminal investigation which attempted to rewrite the laws of science, implicating the officer in wrongdoing of which she was entirely innocent, as well as subjecting Scottish criminal justice to worldwide derision.  (see Shirley McKie, wikipedia) 

When his  Holyrood coalition fell to the Tribesmen, Wallace's brain-numbing, grinning incompetence saw him rewarded with a seat in the Lords 
 

and yet another paid ministerial position, this time  in  the Clegg-Cameron axis. By local standards, indeed by any standards, Wallace is fabulously wealthy, grandly enriched by the taxpayer.  Now that he has helped put LibDemmery  in the political swillbin, along with the NF and the BNP,  Wallace only manages to claim from us three hundred pounds a day, for showing-up at the Lords, and then doing as he pleases.  With his fees in mind, Wallace was obviously anxious not to be delayed on his Monday flight-to-work.

And so, too, was Carmichael, for no sooner was  he aboard than he was reminding the  stewardess of his importance, 

 

of how he had to make his connection, it was vitally important that he get off first, as befitted his stature as a disgraced politician.  Catching himself in full arrogant flow Al added that it wasn't just him,  there were other passengers, too, with connections to make;  he meant his mate, Lord Wallace.
 Carmichael continued  throughout the flight to remind the stewardess of his personal eminence.


 I couldn't quite hear all of it, so I don't know if he asked her to kick the pilot's arse but I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that he had.

  
Now, it is well known locally that many of the morning flights from Orkney to Aberdeen carry NHS patients, bound for the city's Royal Infirmary and given the size of the tiny aircraft that is clearly visisble;  some appointments are routine, some, like mine, are for specialist treatment and some are for those clearly, visibly  in serious distress and discomfort; all, given the stresses on NHS Grampian and Scottish NHS generally, are time-dependent, at least as important, anyone would think, as the diary appointments of a non-ministerial, disgraced MP,

 or a superannuated parasite. 

 

Some of the passengers looked as if  their lives could depend upon their appointments;  they were the sort of people to whom anyone, absolutely anyone,  would say, No, please, you go first. 
 Not our democratic representatives, 
not Carmichael and Wallace.

We must ask you to remain seated, squeaked the stewardess over the speaker, while we help other passengers make their connections.  Thank you for your patience. 



Wallace came barging down the aisle, eyes fixed on his feet, brushing past the inconvenient sick and the impudent lame - his neighbours and former constituents -  as though they didn't exist;  Carmichael, at the front,

 lumbered off the plane without a sideways glance at his seriously ill constituemts.   I felt lucky that neither had felt the need to horsewhip us.

A few minutes elapsed while calls were made from the cockpit and the cabin to check on the progress of our statesmen and then the paying passengers and the sick patients  were allowed to alight.

I missed my appointment by just five minutes and I don't know what happened to everyone else, maybe their clinicians juggled things a bit, just as long as it didn't impede Wallace's progress towards his money or Carmichael's  urgent attendance at whatever it is which his party of eight MPs  finds urgent.

 

We few, we precious few, we band of brothers-in-bumming...

During round one of the Neverendum, Carmichael's inept handling of his role as Scottish Secretary resulted in the demise of his party in the following General Election. Campaigning for the Union, Carmichael proved to be a Scottish Tory lawyer revealing his true colours.  North of the border, his shaky and deeply unsettled constituency - his majority was almost eliminated -  is now  the only Scottish seat in LibDem hands, so he is probably as welcome among LibDem Westminster survivors as is Ed Miliband at Labour HQ. 

Maybe I misjudge them both, maybe theirs is not the insolence of office but the ardour of late middle-aged men, running  late for a tryst with boyfriend or girlfriend, in some second home, provided and furnished by we, their lessers.  
Whichever is the case I shall not easily forget the naked, brutal self-interest of this pair of political cocksuckers and I cordially invite Brother Corbyn to add them to his growing list of candidates for the Big Shiny Guillotine of State. 
The people of Orkney, of course,  should pelt them with rotting turnips.