He was boyish, slimmish, considerably less follicly challenged than now. A Commons new boy with barely a year under his Westminster belt. Alex Salmond, the member for Banff and Buchan, led an SNP gang of four, a much reduced force from their high water mark of 11 prior to the 1979 election.

His target was middle-aged, then portly, and a parliamentary veteran. Nigel Lawson was also Chancellor of the Exchequer in the third Thatcher administration and, in 1988, rose to deliver his Budget speech.

Budgets then, less so now, were expected to be accorded due ­reverence. The packed chamber on March 15 was expected to content itself with low-level grumbling or "hear hearing".

But when Lawson announced not just a tax cut to the top rate, but the advent of the poll tax, to be introduced a year earlier in Scotland than elsewhere in the UK, Salmond was incandescent. In retrospect, it's fair to assume that while his anger may have been real, his subsequent actions were calculated.

Leaping to his feet, he assured a startled Commons that the Budget was "an obscenity", that "the Chancellor cannot do this". Declining to withdraw or apologise, he was duly "named" and suspended for five days. The debate too was suspended for 15 minutes, as Labour members remembered they too opposed tax cuts for the rich and, emboldened by the unlikely turn of events, noisily indicated disapproval.

That episode tells us much about Salmond's Westminster career. He knew that his party was a tiny force in a forum dominated by two massive mainstream parties and their highly visible big beasts. He knew the London-based media would struggle to name any Scottish members outside of those holding shadow portfolios, let alone the four footsoldiers from the Nats.

And he knew that both of these difficulties could be addressed, if not overcome, if he contrived a high-profile stushie at a moment when every lobby correspondent and sketch writer was looking down on the scene.

And over the 23 years he sat on the opposition green benches, latterly with a dual mandate at Holyrood, he managed to punch well above his weight both in the House and externally. He did so in a manner familiar to those who had watched his career north of the Border. A mix of a populist touch on the ground, and a shrewd selection of issues in parliaments.

The southern media, much like their Scottish counterparts, reacted to this cheeky-chappie interloper with both serial irritation and reluctant admiration. Television saw in him a useful addition to their normal repertory companies, inviting him on to programmes as varied as Call My Bluff, Have I Got News for You and Channel 4's Morning Line.

That gave him a public profile. The parliamentary variety came from a series of interventions in areas that have been a motivation throughout his career: war, weapons of war, and the determination of wars' legality. Then, as now, he seemed to revel in the fallout from remarks that detached him from those of other party leaders. His widely publicised verdict that the Nato bombing of Serbia "was an act of dubious legality and unpardonable folly" found him out on a familiar limb.

In 2003, he inveighed against the invasion of Iraq, joining the then Plaid Cymru leader in a vain attempt to have Tony Blair impeached for misleading the Commons over Saddam's weapons of mass destruction. Mr Salmond is not a fan of Mr Blair.

But that was then. What of now? What will happen when a man who celebrates his 60th birthday on Hogmanay stands again for his old stamping ground? Going back to a much-changed Commons landscape throws up a number of imponderables and represents a degree of risk. Though risk is undoubtedly something for which seasoned, lifelong gamblers have an unquenchable appetite.

In 2010, Salmond predicted that enough SNP members would be elected to have Westminster "dance to a Scottish jig". In the event, they failed to muster the numbers for an eightsome reel. Post-referendum, and with the surge in SNP membership, predictions have been made of an SNP rout of Labour-held seats. That, too, would seem a rash prediction, not least since the election is still five months distant.

Salmond's mantra, since September 19, is that the architects of the "Vow" must have their feet held to the legislative fire and deliver on their promise of a swift bill to enshrine new powers. Yet all of that might be overwhelmed by the logistics of forming a Westminster administration given the volatility of the UK polls. Neither Labour nor Tories can be sure of victory.

Will the LibDem vote collapse? Will Ukip do well and, if so, will it hurt the Tories disproportionately or wound both main parties? Will the SNP make significant gains at once enhancing their bargaining power and reducing Ed Miliband's tartan army?

If the latter scenario plays out, you might imagine with what glee Alex Salmond would embrace the role of haudin' the jaikets, doing backstage deals, embracing interest in to whom his troops might plight their troth.

We know a deal with the Tories will not get on to any table. We might safely assume Mr Farage will not be summoned for a fraternal hauf. An accommodation with Labour has not been ruled out. But Alex Salmond has dropped hints that minority government is a game he enjoys playing.

Were he to be cast in the role of leading an opposition party of reasonable numbers, bestowing parliamentary favours as and when inclined, being courted by the Prime Minister of the day at regular intervals, that would be a very seductive scenario.

Power without too much irritating responsibility beyond extracting the best deal for Scotland, profile without the wholesale intrusion ­accompanying a contemporary Prime Minister's lifestyle.

Not to mention the opportunity to deliver witty speeches and make fresh mischief in a chamber not exactly over-burdened with orators.

As they say, what's not to like?