Wee Eck truly is worth his weight in gold

Oh, to be so capacious, to jingle so merrily. My life would be complete, and I’d want for nothing, except better hair and a less feminine musculature.

For the avoidance of doubt, I speak of myself in the latter regard. I’ve no idea about Mr Salmond’s musculature. He has only punched me about three times in my journalistic career, and once wrestled me to the ground when we were both vying for the last three peanuts in a bowl at an important social function.

I don’t recall any particular impression of strength or its lack compared to other politicians who have wrestled me to the ground over the years.

But, more than physical strength, the former First Minister has great mental strength, which he is in need of to cope with the brickbats bunged his way on a daily basis.

The latest furore involves his robust financial health. Apart from being an MP, he earns a six-figure sum from freelance newspaper columns for various publications, as do I, though my six-figure sum has a decimal point some way from the end.

Now he is to earn more money from hosting a radio phone-in show in yonder London, where undoubtedly the top Scottish Nationalist will be billed as a “shock-jock”.

I hope he’s paid handsomely for this important work as studies show that, without exception, people who phone such shows are mental.

Nor am I frothing at the mouth about the earnings of a man routinely described as “the world’s leading Eck”.

He gives generously to charity and, had he devoted himself entirely to the private sector, would have earned a right fortune which I, as an old-fashioned socialist, would have confiscated for the greater good.

His would never be the fate of those former Labour MPs having difficulty finding work, despite their clear records of principle and integrity. Something in that last sentence isn’t quite right and, as I’m very busy writing this column, I leave it up to you to amend.

Ecksforth is a go-getter, a do-er. He doesn’t get downhearted. In his place, beset politically by the sort of half-baked tatties who phone radio shows, I’d have done a Captain Blackadder and fled to Tibet, there to spend the rest of my days disguised as a yak.

Instead, he goes on the radio to yack. That takes brio. To illustrate what he’s like, here’s a true story minimally embellished every two or three words.

Once, I was sauntering down Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, thinking about death and – quite unrelately – America, when I bumped into Eck waddling in my direction.

“Hello, Eck, I am going to America soon,” I said despondently.

“To Tartan Day?” he asked.

“Afraid so.”

“Come with me,” he said. And, to my surprise, I found myself trailing in his slipstream, until we reached his office.

“What will happen after I die?” I asked, by way of making conversation.

“You will ascend to heaven to live with the angels,” he said brusquely. “In the meantime, I am giving you these.”

He handed me a list of names and numbers.

“Are they angels?” I asked facetiously.

“No, they are real people who will be able to help you. They wield enormous power in America. They’ll give you good quotes, inside information.”

I thanked him sincerely and left, carefully placing the list in a litter bin outside. The point about this ode is the way he’d leapt into action on my behalf, even though I couldn’t give a flying one. He’s a do-er, d’you see?

Over the years, I had mocked Eck mercilessly. Nothing substantial, mainly his eyebrows, for the disturbing way that they rise like two unicorns astride a coat of arms.

However, eyebrows apart, you could see this was a man going places. And now he’s going on the radio. The work will add to his financial stock, and I do not grudge him it.

He is worth his weight in gold. Even if he needs to diet a little.