How our politicians respond to satire is a burning issue

It was meant to be funny, insisted the organisers, and no offence was intended, but some independence supporters did not see the joke. Perhaps unfamiliar with the town's tradition of burning political effigies, a form of equal opportunities satire that has targeted David Cameron and Nick Clegg in the past, many took to social media in disbelief at what they perceived as anti-Scottish sentiment. Veins throbbing in temples and spittle flying, complaints were made to Sussex Police, who made clear they were duly obliged to investigate. One deadpan police source said that while some callers appeared to be under the impression the real Mr Salmond was being set alight, for the avoidance of doubt "it was in fact an effigy".

Oh dear. Is all this really necessary? True, the burning of effigies can be a sinister sight when carried out by angry, fanatical mobs in places marred by violence and sectarianism.

But the people of Lewes, famous principally for this festival and their fondness for crystal healers, New Age emporia and other harmless hippy pursuits, are not exactly a threat to Scotland's national security. They just like to cut politicians down to size. Yes, it is fair to assume that a true appreciation of why so many Scots desire independence is probably a tad lacking in the town's pubs and cafes; as a frequent visitor to Sussex, I know that utter bemusement about the whole independence movement is a default setting for many. It really is a different country down there. But anti-Scottish? Hateful? There doesn't seem much evidence for that.

This was, surely, a classic example of disconnected English observers wading blithely into the Scottish constitutional debate without understanding it or realising what a tidal wave of manure they would be unleashing on themselves. The shocked, chastened reaction of East Sussex County Council, which tweeted a picture of one of the effigies only to withdraw it again soon afterwards and distance itself from the bonfire organisers, said it all.

Tweeters who have hammered their keyboards to breaking point over all this, are not doing themselves any favours. Overreacting to an off-colour joke is a sure-fire way to give yourself an air of intolerance and fanaticism, and no-one understands this better than Alex Salmond himself. That is why his own reaction contrasted so sharply with that of his angry supporters. In typical style, he turned the whole episode to his advantage by responding with calm and a sense of humour, saying he was more upset by the idea of burning Nessie (quite right) and adding that if the people of Lewes think he's a threat to the Westminster establishment like Guy Fawkes, they are right. Nothing humanises a politician more than sharing the joke and turning it against your critics. When news emerged yesterday that one of the effigies had been blown up at the end of the evening, the First Minister's spokesman took it in the right spirit, quipping: "As well as the SNP being all over Scotland, Alex Salmond is now all over East Sussex."

Humour is a good look for Mr Salmond. But there is also a serious principle here. However one feels about the notion of burning effigies in this day and age, the Lewes festival's pillorying of politicians is part of the tradition in these islands of free speech and political satire; something too precious to be suppressed by the moral outrage of the oversensitive. The modern history of Britain has been one of evolutionary change and moderation, instead of revolution and extremism, and that is in no small part because British citizens have a release valve. They may say what they think and poke fun at those in power, within the bounds of decency, without fear of repression, intimidation or arrest. We have to be careful not to undermine that right by turning edgy humour into a social taboo.

Impressionist Rory Bremner has noted that political satire was disappointedly lacking during the Scottish independence debate, which he put down to some activists being so emotionally involved with the issue they could not relax. That was a pity. We need more satire in politics, not more po-faced indignation. Just imagine British politics without Spitting Image, Have I Got News for You or the News Quiz. These programmes in the finest Hogarthian tradition can be merciless in their use of weapons-grade wit, but they are not just entertainment or vehicles for social commentary, though they are certainly both of those things; they are also reminders to the political class that the British public cannot be treated as a plodding bovine herd to be manipulated and managed.

Satirists watch politicians with the same beady sceptical eye as an X Factor judging panel. They have a keen nose for insincerity, faux outrage, dissembling and pomposity, a good dart-throwing arm and a talent for finding their target. We need them, and politicians who want to flourish under their relentless gaze have to know how to use wit themselves, ideally at their own expense.

When a politician does deploy humour and a relaxed attitude, it can wrong-foot critics. When Nick Clegg's public apology for breaking his promise on tuition fees was made into a satirical song, he took the sting out of what could have been yet more excruciating embarrassment by letting it be known he found it funny and giving permission for "the Apology Song" to be released as a charity single.

It must seem like a distant memory to him now, but Barack Obama was portrayed by some almost as a messiah during his first successful presidential election campaign and drew attacks for having an unwieldy ego. So he addressed the issue during his first White House Correspondents dinner. Announcing he would like to discuss his plans, he said: "During the second 100 days, we will design, build and open a library dedicated to my first 100 days," adding later that: "I believe that my next 100 days will be so successful, I will be able to complete them in 72 days - and on the 73rd day I will rest."

Some political satire is hard-edged. Who could forget John Major's grey Spitting Image puppet or the show's portrayal of a squeaky David Steel as David Owen's pint-sized sidekick, which the Scottish MP later blamed for damaging his public standing? That same belittling pairing was used in the Lewes effigy of David Cameron and Nick Clegg in 2010, with the deputy prime minister portrayed as Mr Cameron's puppet (ouch). But Nick Clegg knows that outrage is rarely if ever an effective response to satire - and Alex Salmond knows it too.