Free at Last by Sheila Adamson
I went to the opening of the Scottish Parliament today. 9th October 2004, a wee moment of history. It was the first time I’d seen the building properly, even though they’ve been building it round the corner from me for the last however many years. Now the hoardings and cranes and cement mixers have been cleared away and in their place we suddenly have ponds, grass and this big, weird collection of architecture. It’s certainly different. Not sure if I like it yet. Not sure at all.
I read what the architect’s widow says about it and sometimes I feel I know what she’s getting at and sometimes I feel she’s on a different planet. She said the building was trying to disguise the fact that it had to have walls. As if walls were a bad thing for a building to have. She said it wasn’t a rigid hierarchical structure but looser, like boats in a harbour. Doesn’t she think that Scottish politics is quite disorganised enough? She said she and her husband wanted to give the Scottish people something that lives up to the hundreds of years we’ve had to wait. To me the building feels very un-Scottish. That may prove to be no bad thing; maybe we need to change.
There’s a lot of optimism on a day like today, which is also not natural for Scotland. Let’s face it, what are we famous for? We’re dour. We’re dogged. We revel in dry humour and taking the piss out of our friends. We don’t get carried away. If Jesus appeared in the Second Coming and offered us the kingdom of heaven we’d say, ‘Aye, but will it work? How much will it cost?’
It cost £430 million. Apparently that’s about £85 a head. When I heard this I was surprised. If someone had come to me ten years ago and said I could have a Scottish Parliament for £85 I’d have called it a bargain. Yes, it would have been even more of a bargain if they hadn’t made such a pig’s ear of the construction, but it still feels worth it to me. I couldn’t go back to the old days of Westminster rule.
Others obviously could. There were protesters in the crowd at Horse Wynd with placards complaining about the cost. The police seemed keen to move them away, perhaps out of sight of the TV cameras. That leaves a bad taste, what is a parliament about if it isn’t democracy? What worries me more is the quiet but pernicious niggling from the sidelines. There was a man next to me who spent the entire time swapping cynical comments with his son and slagging off people in the procession. They thought they were being clever. I wanted to enjoy the day, I did enjoy the day, more than I expected. They wanted to criticise it. I nearly turned to them and berated them. I nearly said to the boy, ‘Don’t you know this is the best country in the world to live in? Can’t you be glad?’
Of course, that’s a reckless claim to make. The best country? There are several other perfectly nice countries around the world. Nevertheless, I would rather have Scotland. It suits me. And the pre-match entertainment was firing me up, putting a tear in my eye. Three tangerine-kilted tenors belted out Scottish songs, ending with a rousing ‘Five Hundred Miles’. I had to laugh at their spirited rendition of ‘The Deil's awa wi the exciseman’. Does this mean in the new Scotland there will be no tax?
Banners in the procession attempted to proclaim our national values, which naturally prompted more scorn from my carping companions. I was interested to see we believe in Compassion, Wisdom, Justice and Integrity. I can sign up to that, although I fear we’ll have trouble living up to it. Especially the politicians. ‘I wonder who comes up with these bland slogans?’ sneered Mr Negative.
I didn’t hear what he would have come up with that was better.
The procession was winding to a halt. Wheelchair users who had stoically bumped their way over the cobbles of the Royal Mile collected at the edge of the road, their path blocked by a kerb. The parliament welcomes everyone in with its inclusive architecture, but only in a metaphorical sense.
I went home to watch the ceremony itself on TV. It was good. Edwin Morgan’s poem was excellent, spelling out what we don’t want from the parliament. The droopy mantra, ‘It wisnae me.’ But more to the point is what we do want. Jack McConnell, not normally the most natural of public speakers, spoke well and emotionally. He wants us to take pride in ourselves and be positive. I imagined Mr Negative, trundling off with his son, happily complaining about everything. Maybe that’s as positive as we get in Scotland.
But we have our sentimental side. For the finale to the ceremony ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was sung and everyone linked hands and joined in. Normally to gain that sense of heart-warming togetherness you have to be drunk on Hogmanay. My heart was thoroughly warmed today. Everybody was belting out the tune, bouncing hands and wishing well. Even the royal pursuivants or whatever their called, and the bloke who carries the mace. The only two who stood apart were the Queen herself and the presiding officer, George Reid, next to her. I don’t know if George offered a hand to his trusty fier or if he was afraid to. Nobody touches the royal person. I felt sorry for her. Left out again.
So who knows how the parliament will get on? How many good ideas will be realised, and how many will be knocked down by the Mr Negatives? Will auld acquaintance quickly be forgotten? I feel I’ve seen the best and worst of my country all in one day, and I suspect I know the answer.
