FrankLeeBrian@FrankLeeBrian
@TimesRadio Aaaaaargh Sturgeon again!
The self-indulgent pomposity, the preening, the theatrical catch in the voice — a fitting farewell from Scotland's greatest snake oil saleswoman. One last carefully rehearsed tremble of the lip from the woman who made a career of confusing sincerity with its cosmetic imitation.
Sturgeon was never Scotland's saviour. She was the Dreghorn Gollum — a failed solicitor, a pretender, a lavender ghost, and ultimately a destroyer of women's rights. A creature of the process, not the purpose — who hoarded her Precious: the poll ratings, the grievance, the perpetually deferred referendum never meant to arrive, only to sustain. Independence was not the destination. It was the revenue model.
The hospitals not reformed. The schools sliding down the international rankings. The ferries rusting at the dock — a monument in steel to the SNP's extraordinary gift for spending enormous sums to produce nothing that floats, flies, or functions. She wore the aesthetics of progressivism like a high-visibility jacket — visible, protective, entirely hollow. That it required a Alister Jack to protect Scottish women from their own devolved government is a sentence that should be carved above the door of Bute House as a historical epitaph.
The Salmond affair. The deleted WhatsApps. The campervan. The six hundred thousand pounds. The husband in handcuffs. The banal farce of a political class that believed the rules were for the management of others.
In the bright post-SNP future, Scottish schoolchildren will study her career as a warning of how Scotland nearly became Romania — a country with a vibrant national mythology, permanent external villains, and infrastructure that crumbled while the speeches soared.
She was very, very good at the performance. Just never at anything else.
