As imagined by Brian Beacom

FIRST thing I have to say to your readers is that I wasn’t axed as SNP leader in the House.

Yes, it’s true for weeks now I’ve seen shadowy figures behind curtains, clutching sgian-dubhs in their skinny young hands while muttering ‘Blackford’s too far up Sturgeon’s thesis, he has to go.’

Yes, I’ve witnessed Scots MPs arm wrestle over who would get my underground parking place.

And now you’re saying to me: ‘What? You didn’t see the coup coming? What are you, the Mr Magoo of Westminster? When that Young Turk Stephen Flynn announced two weeks ago that he wouldn’t be standing for your job as leader, wasn’t that a clue that it would take around two weeks for him to conveniently forget he had ever said this to be the case?’

Yes, perhaps there were more plots being hatched than you’ll find in a le Carré novel, and only last week Mhairi Black described the SNP old guard as ‘zoomers’.

But no, I wasn’t aware of my exit at all, because I couldn’t see how a multi-millionaire humble crofter – who once worked as a managing director for NatWest Securities – such as myself, could not be seen as the radical voice of our nation’s future.

Yes, I concede I have made a few mistakes along the way.

I’ve been a bit too cuddly off-stage with Boris.

I’ve worn waistcoats trying to cultivate an elder statesman aura, when I’ve all I’ve managed is to look like is Uncle Monty from Withnail and I.

And, yes, I loved to showboat, and bore the Opposition – and perhaps even my own Party – rigid by using sentences longer than Nelson Mandela survived.

But I would argue on one point; who hasn’t supported a sex pest at some point in their career?

However, I need to clear up another issue. Critics of the SNP are now saying that my sacking, sorry resignation, clearly underlines a growing trend within the Party to eat its own limbs, citing the Ash Regan recent example.

I refute this allegation in the strongest possible terms. The SNP has long been able to execute political cannibalism when required. Two words; Alex Salmond. Or another two. Joanna Cherry, whom, I hear, had to be admitted to a cosmetic surgery clinic last night to have the Joker-sized grin on her face reduced to a wide smirk.

But I leave this job after five colourful years knowing at least Nicola has always given me her full support. Except at the time of the leadership contest when I wasn’t her number one choice. She has always been with me. Until she wasn’t.

And isn’t it sad that I’m on my way up the road because I refuse to support those who believe I’m past it, and that Nicola can be a toaty wee bit autocratic?

But how can you criticise a dear friend who happens to be a deity and . . . sorry, did I hear you snore there?

Am I boring you?