Cue Mission Impossible Music...my mission: to blend in with the public gallery in the Scottish Parliament.

Get a feel, a comedy eye view of how democracy operates up close and personal, to infiltrate the very firmament of Holyrood. To not fart, belch, or heckle, no matter how easy it would be to let rip.

FMQs. No, it's not Fat Man Questions - he's thinner in real life. Brian Taylor looks skinny on TV. Baby Buddha in real life. But disarmingly nifty like a trained dancer, nimble on his dancing feet when moving in for the political kill.

I've always loved the Parliament building, probably one of the few, apart from maybe the architects and Kirsty Wark. Remember all the controversy? The architects? The spiralling cost? The runny scrambled egg? Now it's kind of grown into itself, found its looks, the parliament building has become an integral part of the landscape, the roof even hardly leaks any more.

The first hurdle is security, it's like an airport as staff check you aren't wearing a Semtex tank top. All the warnings were in Gaelic too. I hadn't heard of Gaelic terrorist cells. Then my inner voice of reason says they're all just doing their job. Then my other cheeky monkey voice says: 'Aye that's what they said about Hitler…'

The audience remind me of radio recording audiences for a show I used to work on called Watson's Wind Up, recorded in the GFT. Punters who knew a great free ticket when they saw one.

They seem on first name terms with security. The patter's warm, clearly they are regular FMQ-ers. In fact that sums up the whole FMQs experience rather accurately; part comedy show recording, part jury duty.

I feel it's my duty to inform you who runs the country, it's not Salmond or Sturgeon - it's Trisha Marwick and trust me, no one messes with her.

Johann Lamont is much more confident and purposeful in real life, yet still seems nervous when you watch back on TV. At 11:57am, the FM appears. He walks into the chamber, a mix between Donald Trump expecting a trumpet fanfare and a hungry High court judge.

He has a look that says he's slightly miffed that everyone hasn't stood up to applaud. Kenny MacCaskill and John Swinney are extremely tall and look like basketball players or extras in a bad CIA US drama. Swinney in fact resembles the height of his doppelgänger Hen Broon in real life. Both spend time pre-midday TV broadcast straightening up their ties.

I bore easy, there isn't much in the way of action - living wage, the Budget. The only talking point for me from the Nudget was how creepy George Osborne looked with that red briefcase. The child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang sprung to mind. Far creepier than usual.

On the subject of Tories being out of touch, I'm not even sure if the Scottish Conservatives know how badly they come across. Even their own diehards are staying at home to watch something more plausible and believable like Eastenders.

The half-empty auditoriums at their conference didn't look good for the leader's big moment. I'm not a speech writer and don't claim to be a policy expert but the message…Let's tax the sick, might need some work, possibly a re-think. Let's make people who are sick, frail and weak pay for their prescriptions? What a game changer. Who comes up with this gold?

Alex Salmond brushes off the Tories like a bit of fluff from his suit before being asked to move it along by the Presiding Officer.

I'm told by a regular this isn't a great debate, a bit more sensible and sober than usual. Still, I'm amazed at how raucous, loud and disrespectful they all are when someone's speaking. There are loads of school parties marshalled in, being hushed by their teachers only to see the grown-ups behave terribly, shout out, heckle and act like chimps at a tea party.

Still I'm bored, I keep thinking how proceedings could be livened up with a Pussy Riot styled protest. Maybe jump up on to the main debating chamber and re enact that elephant on Blue Peter, lightening its considerable load.

I've a book to promote that would be great publicity - ironically a spoof memoir of a fictional First Minister - to boot. Better still, pretend I'm Rod Hull and Emu and attack the Salmond and Lamont. No, I'm too scared of the wrath of disdain from a rather stern faced security woman with an ear piece who has found herself with incredible power, pointing to where people have to sit. Have earpieces taken over from keys as the new sign of responsibility and importance?

As I prepare to write up copy in the white heat of technology, I notice how trendy everyone seems. They pull out their iPad or tablet. I pull out my notebook and pen from my coat; a maverick, like Colombo on the case. That's how I work. Notes, gags, and wang-dang doodles. I get funny looks; to them a pen seems a quaint curiosity. They don't know I'm under cover.

I'm shocked at how frightfully nice and, dare I say it, middle class it all is. In the cafe, the closest we get to anarchy is fighting for the Empire biscuit with the biggest cherry, the parliament shortbread is delicious and someone places a chocolate saltire on my cappuccino.

It's all so cool and European and modern. I speak to someone who works for the Open University and she informs me there's a free crèche. It's all very sensible and practical.

Earlier at one point in the canteen, we saw a power meeting of sorts while someone next to them had bamboo knitting needles, only stopping for the briefest of nibbles on a chickpea falafel.

This is Scotland? Where's yer sliced sausage hen?