Robert McNeil: When it comes to drink and politics, moderation should be everything

I think I can speak authoritatively on this subject, having been a dedicated teetotaller for several hours, and I don’t doubt there may be something in what Mr Bercow says. Alcohol is strange. Often, its usage is related to stress and depression, both of which run rampant in the Mummy of Parliaments.

But which man or woman of the world can deny that, after a rotten day, a large G&T or dram can work wonders, settling down the mind and making one feel human again? Having been bossed around and bullied all day, the relaxed imbiber sticks his or her head out the window and shouts: “You can all go and procreate yourselves!”

Marvellous. The medical profession has nothing to equal this wonder drug. Indeed, if you could bottle it, you’d be on to a fortune.

Alcohol can also supply confidence and Dutch courage, which can come in handy where someone has to do something heroic like make a speech in a place full of rude, shouty people. But if ever the expression “too much of a good thing” made any sense it’s in relation to alcohol. With alcohol, everything quickly becomes all right and slowly becomes all wrong.

The difficulty with drink is that one or two make you a god or sage, without the power or wisdom to know that’s the point at which you should stop. The arithmetic of alcohol is that one or two leads to three or four.

That mid-point where you should stop just as you’re starting to feel unnaturally happy is the most difficult thing for the human mind to master. It’s like kung fu: the whole secret of which is to stay calm in the middle of a violent confrontation, which no one in the world can do – only a master (and there are actually none of these).

All that said, I’m not convinced alcohol is the sole reason for bullying at Westminster. It occurs in many other workplaces that don’t have several bars on the premises. Perhaps it’s to do with the sort of person who becomes an MP, someone who seeks power, the direction to which only becomes evident when one throws away one’s moral compass.

I’ve never understood, or approved of, the arrogance behind any public speaking: the idea that everyone should listen to you. If you know anyone like this, I’d advise cutting all ties with them immediately.

And yet it’s what politicians are all about. It’s about people drunk on their own ego. I guess it’s true that drink makes this worse but, again, I wonder if it’s the root cause of all the bad behaviour Doon There.

In an odd, inverse way, today’s widespread, prurient and hypocritical horror of drink only makes it more attractive. That’s human nature. In more sensible countries than ours, it’s acceptable to have a little pick-me-up at any time of the day.

People who look back to the Seventies with fondness always single out the fact that it was quite common for people to go for a pint at lunchtime. The late Queen Mother liked a wee swallie as soon as the clock struck noon, and no evidence ever emerged of her getting into a fist-fight or walking around the palace with her pants on her heid.

But perhaps, today, rather than having a civilised snifter at periodic intervals, there’s too much bingeing. It might be possible to have alarms go off whenever an MP demands that third killer drink. Or perhaps they could be fitted with smart watches that zap them electronically when they go over the score?

I dare say not. Besides, I still suspect it’s their personalities that require a sense of moderation.

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WE live, as you know, in times where abuse of Scotland from south of the border is as rampant as a lion, but even mentioning the “E” word up here is likely to lead to imprisonment. It’s one of the drawbacks to living in a country run by nationalists so politically correct that many are even afraid to mention the “S” word.

However, I haven’t gathered you here today to discuss the S. National Party, but Mr Noel Gallagher, formerly of Oasis, who described S. as a “Third World country”.

Mr G. from Manchester, made his remark during a spat with S****ish singer Lewis Capaldi, claiming also that he’d never heard of him, which is outrageous. However, to be fair, neither had I.

More damningly, the Mancunian virtuoso compared Lewis to Chewbacca, out of Star Trek Wars, with the implication that he wanders about grunting incomprehensibly and wearing only a bandolier. Sure I’ve seen him on Sauchiehall Street, right enough.

Despite efforts at mediation by the Scottish ambassador, Irn Bru, at the time of going to press the situation has escalated, with talk of England – damn, said it! – sending HMS Montrose to the Firth of Forth. More reports as they come in.

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LIKE many decent ratepayers, I don’t like being mean towards people who have served their country to the best of their ability, despite making a complete bags of it.

Thus, erstwhile Prime Minister Theresa May, who revealed her hitherto hidden human side in her “final No 10 interview” – doubt it – with a British newspaper.

Frequently accused of being robotic, Mrs May was asked if she’d ever done normal Earthling stuff like use the f-word when annoyed. Her brain whirred and honked before she replied: “I have often said that I am … frustrated.” Frustrating hell – pretty strong language coming from a vicar’s daughter.

More controversially, she denied being dull, pointing to the time she had an Aperol spritz and “larked about”, as the paper put it, on the plane home after a world economic summit.

Not being used to alcohol, I had to look up “Asperol spritz” and discovered it was an Italian wine-based cocktail. Hmm. Might have one as a chaser to a proper drink.

Mrs May is due to be replaced by Boris Johnson, who has had affairs with most of the women in England and drinks a vat of red wine every night. That’s the trouble with him: he’s all too human.

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IF Mr Smiley were still out there telling the world that “Glasgow’s Miles Better”, his mooth would have turned upside doon at the news that Glaswegians have the lowest levels of happiness in Scotland.

According to the Bank of Scotland’s annual “happiness index”, the Highlands and Islands had the happiest folk. You can see a case for this, of course, if your mind conjures up a picture of someone stravaiging manfully across the heather then compare it with someone in a scheme queuing up for fags and sweeties from the ice cream van.

But I’m not sure life’s all like that and, besides, ah hae ma doots aboot such surveys. It all depends what you ask folk, of course. Several of these polls occur throughout the year and, in many of them, you detect a kind of local patriotism that tends to be lacking in sophisticated city folk.

All the same, it can’t surely come as a surprise that the Highlands and Islands are – mostly, not everywhere – a grand place to live, though personally I’d prefer the best of both worlds, stravaiging manfully across the heather to the ice cream van for a large cone and, perchance, a Curly-Wurly.