The political pace picked up this week. One year to go till the big day and suddenly Scotland was the centre of attention and pure loving being in the limelight.

First came the invasion of the Lib Dems. Vince Cable and Nick Clegg clearly took their gallus pills in Glasgow - they were like unruly but highly paid babysitters left in charge while the parents are away. They won't be so brave when they're back making the tea for the Eton Young Team at the next cabinet meeting.

Nick Clegg made a speech and there was no mention of the biggest talking point in Glasgow - how creepy Andrew Neil's hair looks in real life.

They were all out in force in Glasgow. Guardian journalists struggling with the West End's rakish charm. Chaps from The Irish Times approaching friends in coffee shops who should've been at work for a referendum comment. I was even stopped in my own house by my internal editor, a fine looking man, dapper, debonair, sharp, always drunk and racist. "It's meant to be boring, it's a Lib Dem Conference what are you hoping for?" He was menacing, spiteful, a mix of Humphrey Bogart doing a bad James Bond in the original Casino Royale. I suggested Jo Swinton riding naked on a horse down Byres Road.

Just then Danny Alexander showed up as Beaker from the Muppets. It got more surreal. Evan Davies was now walking around Easterhouse. Evan Davies from Dragon's Den in Easterhouse? Then he started interviewing Danny Alexander.

Alexander is skilled in the language of politico. He doesn't speak like a human being. He just says you know all the time. At every point when there should've been a breath or a comma he said you know. He also used you know when he didn't know. They never use it in speeches on the autocue, usually just when their brain's scrambling and he doesn't know. When it was a key point he wanted to emphasise he went for the classic 'Look!' at the start of the sentence. I found myself playing politico speak bingo and was waiting for him to say 'going forward' for a full house.   

 

Radio 5 Live's Victoria Derbyshire had a big square-go debate at the Fruitmarket. Kirsty Wark did Newsnight beside a bridge at the River Tweed and Glen Campbell was in Inverness having yet another Big Debate.

The Fruitmarket debate was funny. They were all there: Dame in waiting Elaine C Smith and her pal Fiona Hyslop; Professor John Curtice of Strathclyde University and Brian Taylor confirmed there must've been a high-quality buffet by showing up salivating with that familiar look that said forget politics, let's get to lunch.  

Victoria encouraged the crowd to be unruly and to move between Yes, No or Undecided during the debate. The effect, for those of a certain vintage, was like watching Runaround. One chap in specs seized the day- and the mic - at every opportunity like a wannabe politician on some political X Factor, trying to be the new Tommy Sheridan. There was the usual shouting, arguing and switching of sides. Elaine C Smith and Fiona Hyslop looked like they were missing something good on the telly. Along with Brian Taylor, still with the Rainbow braces on, they hardly got a word in edgeways.

Kirsty Wark's Newsnight Scotland debate was an altogether more grown-up affair. It was in a lovely marquee in the shadow of a dramatically lit bridge. After complaining about the lack of sensible and reasoned debate, we got it. Finance, national identity, currency, border control. Forget bridge over the River Tweed, I was thinking Bridge Over the River Kwai. I found myself hoping William Holden was trying to blow it up while Alec Guinness was going mental. The show had four women and one man on the panel - the sort of numbers I'd vote yes for.

 

Just like the Lib Dems this week, I also realised how out of touch I was. I used to be able to busk my way through conversations on most art forms, particularly music. This week people were talking about someone and I didn't know who he was. It was official - I'm out of touch.

All across social media women were attacking someone called Robin Thicke. He's apparently a singer with a controversial sexist song. Miley Cyrus  danced all dirty with him at the MTV Awards. He was in a band called Maroon 5. The chap isn't exactly dropping sarin gas on his fans. I knew of Miley Cyrus, though, I'm a huge fan of her oeuvre and loved her dad's work.

I realised, in my parallel universe, apart from a 1960s garage compilation, or the excitement of finding The Smiths' This Charming Man in a charity shop, my recent buys have been the odd Nick Cave, Duke Ellington and BMX Bandit album. In my world, there are really only four or five benchmark songs. I get carnaptious when artists don't get close to Louis Louis,  Ticket to Ride, Pretty Vacant, Smells Like Teen Spirit  or Blitzkrieg Bop. Anyway, I've been too busy immersed in the drama of the Lib Dem shindig to keep my groovy finger on the pop pulse.