AT times when I’m at my lowest ebb – attending the gym, a Hibs defeat, writing a newspaper column – I often console myself with the following thought: “Well, at least the country is not at war, I am nearly free of acne now, and I am not in jail.’”

It’s the last one that exercises me in particular. I think it’s because it could so easily happen to any of us. You could be blamed for a road accident or defend yourself against an attacker who comes off worst or, in an unguarded moment, reach over and help yourself to money from a till. We’ve all done it.

You read stories in the public prints every day of otherwise decent ratepayers suddenly finding themselves with a ball and chain attached to their nose as they’re led off to serve months or years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure (not a gin and Dubonnet in this instance).

How do you recover from that? Do you get your old job back? I don’t doubt you would get a new one easily enough, as I’m sure having a criminal record gets you brownie points in a modern job application. No normal person ever makes it through “human resources” tests these days, only liars, cheats and charlatans, which – despite what you may have read elsewhere about moral turpitude, rap music and Tories –is the real reason why society is falling apart.

But I digress, and you say: “Returning to the point for the moment, if we may, what has made you start thinking about jail?” Well, there was the Natalie McGarry case, of course. She’s the former SNP MP, who was led away in handcuffs this week to start an 18-month sentence for embezzling funds from pro-independence groups and failing to pass on money earmarked for food banks.

I do not intend commenting on the ins and arguably the outs of the case. What intrigues me is the fact that, presumably, this is someone who started off with good intentions, with a desire for public service, and ended up in chokey, the ultimate comedown.

Just imagine being an actual MP, at the big, swanky parliament on the banks of the Thames, a person of power (despite the limitation of being Scottish), a mover and shaker, with a decent salary to boot and a job to trump anybody at a party.

“I’m a right fancy lawyer/journalist/estate agent. What do you do?”

“I’m an MP, so you can shut up for a start.”

Of course, Ms McGarry is not the first MP to find herself in such a pickle. Only this week, former Tory Cabinet minister Jonathan Aitken announced he’d rather go back to jail than return to the House of Commons. Those of you who survived the 20th century might recall that, in 1999, Aitken was sentenced to 18 months for perjury, possibly under the false but understandable misapprehension that this was a requirement of his job.

He was sent to Belmarsh Prison, which was no picnic and a bit of a black hole when it came to pressing wild flowers. Aitken converted himself into Christ while in jail, which shows the disconcerting effect it can have on a chap.

Later on, he was ordained as a deacon, which sounds a bit harsh. You can see pictures of the pillock in a cassock, if you know the right people to speak to.

But, honestly, this was a bloke who was the grandson of Lord Rugby, went to Eton and Oxford, and married a couple of right posh burdz. It isn’t right. He should have got five years.

In the wake of the McGarry case, it was suggested that women shouldn’t go to prison on account of their being female, like, which I’d tend to agree with in many instances.

On the other hand, prison is probably more of a deterrent than community service.

At any rate, I say this to you in all seriousness: if you’re thinking of robbing a till or getting into a fight this weekend, then think again. It’s not worth it. And, remember, there’s always someone worse off than you. Or as the Polish saying has it: “I hit rock bottom. Then I heard knocking from underneath.”

++++ VOLES, voles, everywhere! Well, not quite. But at least they’ve been spotted gadding around Glasgow’s Easterhouse.

At first, locals thought they were rats and summoned a constable. But you don’t have to be Big Davey Attenborough to know that water voles are cuter than rats, which isn’t difficult. While I cavil at patting a rat on the heid (and, yeah, I know they make good pets) I could fair spend a happy hour cuddling a wee water vole, whether it liked it or not.

Their return has been aided by Scottish Natural Heritage encouraging councils to create “green infrastructures” that help not only Arvicola amphibius but also controversial blunderer Homo sapiens – that’s you, madam, and, at least in a certain light, me.

Water voles will make the better read among you think of Ratty in the Wind in the Willows and perchance his picnic basket of cold chicken, cold ham, cold beef, potted meat and ginger beer.

In a week where a top pedant told a shocked Hay Festival that Narnia’s Mr and Mrs Beaver would never fish, it behoves us to point out that water voles are vegetarians, eating grass, twigs and Quorn sausage rolls. And they prefer Irn-Bru.

++++

I ALWAYS feel uncomfortable in criticising Tory leadership hopeful Michael Gove. The reason is that I don’t have any issue with whatever he’s chuntering on about currently – some bilge about Britain, Brexit and so forth; such a lot of nonsense – but because it’s his face that gives me the pip.

I know that, on the face of it, so to say, this is shallow and irrational, but as these two words are written above the unicorn and water rat on my coat of arms, at least I’m being faithful to my creed. I know also that his supremely swotty coupon might be disliked instinctively by decent ratepayers the world over.

But I think it’s because he’s technically Scottish that we can see through him. He looks like a phoney, someone play-acting at being a politician.

Worse comes when he play-acts being a Scotsman. Just a week after he was caught mocking Scots as drunken, ugly scroungers in a shocking diatribe to make even the most craven Scotchman wince, he waddles forth in a kilt to the state banquet for President Trump.

I swear if I’d been there I’d have vomited in his smelly wee sporran until it was overflowing.

++++

FLICKING through my copy of Vogue magazine, I was intrigued to find that its list of Britain’s 25 most important women was topped by Meghan Markel, a duchess.

Meghan is praised for being a “revolutionary” force, presumably an allusion to her radicalising of Prince Harry, who has been touring the country fomenting unrest among the ideologically unstable.

According to the bilge before me, the Duchess of All Sussex was joined on the list by “Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge”, which language made me think I’d dropped into a parallel universe where words no longer made sense. This was followed by the intelligence that the list also included “Commissioner Cressida Dick”. I mean, seriously, does no one have a normal name any more?

Oh, wait, there’s a Glaswegian musician called Sophie. Thank God for that. Apparently, her music is right hyperkinetic, ken?

Oddly enough, ersatz prime minister Theresa May doesn’t make the list. Neither does Her Majesty a Queen. I suppose that, while they’re both loved and respected by all, they don’t actually do anything.

But, more than that, the list is an effort to promote the edgy and discombobulating, people that make you sit up, as a prelude to running very far away.

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