Cameron's anti-independence plot bound to backfire

A pre-emptive referendum on independence will only increase the SNP's chance of success.

David Cameron yesterday accused Alex Salmond of being a "big feartie"- an old Scots term meaning 'scared' - for refusing to set a date for a referendum on Scottish independence.

Speaking at a Scots Night event at the Conservative Party Conference in Manchester, Cameron said the SNP leader was guilty of "endlessly trying to create grievance between Scotland and the rest of the United Kingdom" in order to leverage support for his plan to break-up Britain. In an interview with the BBC, the Prime Minister also declined to rule out unilaterally holding a vote on Scotland's constitutional status unless the Scottish Government was more active in bringing forward its referendum proposals.

This idea has been floating around since the SNP won an unprecedented majority at the Holyrood elections in May and appears to be gathering cross-party support.

Last week, Shadow Scotland Secretary Ann McKechin and Shadow Defence Secretary Jim Murphy indicated that they were not averse to a Westminster poll on the grounds that ongoing constitutional 'uncertainty' was damaging Scotland's economic recovery. In the House of Lords, Tory peer Michael Forsyth and Labour peer George Foulkes have each tabled separate amendments to the Scotland Bill which, if successful, would make London solely responsible for instigating a poll.

Technically speaking, the Forsyth and Foulkes amendments are entirely unnecessary: in its current form the devolution settlement does not allow the Scottish Parliament to hold legally binding referendums. But the fact that senior Westminster figures are exploring the possibility of "calling Salmond's bluff"in this manner suggests a rising sense of panic in the Unionist camp. It also reveals that leading Unionists haven't seriously considered the likely effects of such a move.

One of the reasons the SNP has been so successful in recent years is because it has cast itself as the 'National Party of Scotland', rather than just the Scottish National Party. At the May election, this strategy resulted in nationalist breakthroughs in Labour's Glasgow and central-belt heartlands, as well as in traditionally Liberal Highland constituencies. The SNP even managed to win a majority of first-past-the-post seats in affluent, small-c conservative Edinburgh, despite the fact the capital has never been very receptive to the nationalist movement.

Another aspect of Salmond's bid for national dominance has been his relentless promotion of the idea that sovereignty ultimately lies with the Scottish people, not with the Westminster parliament. In a small country with a communitarian tradition and a history steeped in the 'democratic intellect', this carries huge resonance. As such, any attempt by the Tories to impose a referendum on Scotland will only re-enforce the popular impression, cultivated during the Thatcher years, that London is belligerent and dismissive when to comes to Scottish opinion. This would in turn greatly increase the likelihood of a Yes vote.

Finally, it shouldn't be forgotten that neither Labour nor the Conservatives have a mandate to stage a pre-emptive ballot on independence. Although Labour comfortably won the Westminster election in Scotland last year, they did so as a party militantly opposed to the staging of any vote on secession at all. Only the SNP can claim to have the consistently campaigned for and supported the right of Scots to decide for themselves. A sudden, coordinated reversal of policy by the Unionist parties would look cynical, not to mention desperate.

James Maxwell is a Scottish political journalist. He is based between Scotland and London.

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If there’s no booze or naked women, what’s the point of being a footballer?

Peter Crouch came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

At a professional league ground near you, the following conversation will be taking place. After an excellent morning training session, in which the players all worked hard, and didn’t wind up the assistant coach they all hate, or cut the crotch out of the new trousers belonging to the reserve goalie, the captain or some senior player will go into the manager’s office.

“Hi, gaffer. Just thought I’d let you know that we’ve booked the Salvation Hall. They’ll leave the table-tennis tables in place, so we’ll probably have a few games, as it’s the players’ Christmas party, OK?”

“FECKING CHRISTMAS PARTY!? I TOLD YOU NO CHRISTMAS PARTIES THIS YEAR. NOT AFTER LAST YEAR. GERROUT . . .”

So the captain has to cancel the booking – which was actually at the Salvation Go Go Gentlemen’s Club on the high street, plus the Saucy Sporty Strippers, who specialise in naked table tennis.

One of the attractions for youths, when they dream of being a footballer or a pop star, is not just imagining themselves number one in the Prem or number one in the hit parade, but all the girls who’ll be clambering for them. Young, thrusting politicians have similar fantasies. Alas, it doesn’t always work out.

Today, we have all these foreign managers and foreign players coming here, not pinching our women (they’re too busy for that), but bringing foreign customs about diet and drink and no sex at half-time. Rotters, ruining the simple pleasures of our brave British lads which they’ve enjoyed for over a century.

The tabloids recently went all pious when poor old Wayne Rooney was seen standing around drinking till the early hours at the England team hotel after their win over Scotland. He’d apparently been invited to a wedding that happened to be going on there. What I can’t understand is: why join a wedding party for total strangers? Nothing more boring than someone else’s wedding. Why didn’t he stay in the bar and get smashed?

Even odder was the behaviour of two other England stars, Adam Lallana and Jordan Henderson. They made a 220-mile round trip from their hotel in Hertfordshire to visit a strip club, For Your Eyes Only, in Bournemouth. Bournemouth! Don’t they have naked women in Herts? I thought one of the points of having all these millions – and a vast office staff employed by your agent – is that anything you want gets fixed for you. Why couldn’t dancing girls have been shuttled into another hotel down the road? Or even to the lads’ own hotel, dressed as French maids?

In the years when I travelled with the Spurs team, it was quite common in provincial towns, after a Saturday game, for players to pick up girls at a local club and share them out.

Like top pop stars, top clubs have fixers who can sort out most problems, and pleasures, as well as smart solicitors and willing police superintendents to clear up the mess afterwards.

The England players had a night off, so they weren’t breaking any rules, even though they were going to play Spain 48 hours later. It sounds like off-the-cuff, spontaneous, home-made fun. In Wayne’s case, he probably thought he was doing good, being approachable, as England captain.

Quite why the other two went to Bournemouth was eventually revealed by one of the tabloids. It is Lallana’s home town. He obviously said to Jordan Henderson, “Hey Hendo, I know a cool club. They always look after me. Quick, jump into my Bentley . . .”

They spent only two hours at the club. Henderson drank water. Lallana had a beer. Don’t call that much of a night out.

In the days of Jimmy Greaves, Tony Adams, Roy Keane, or Gazza in his pomp, they’d have been paralytic. It was common for players to arrive for training still drunk, not having been to bed.

Peter Crouch, the former England player, 6ft 7in, now on the fringes at Stoke, came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage