During Wednesday’s PMQs, the SNP’s leader in Westminster, Ian Blackford, had implored Boris Johnson and any other cabinet minister to visit Scotland. The more the merrier. Just come, said Blackford. Because the more the Scots saw of the Tory government, the greater the support for Scottish independence. The following day, Boris took him up on his offer. Come the evening, he was rather wishing he hadn’t bothered. It had been an early start for Boris to catch the plane up to Orkney and he wasn’t feeling his sharpest. As usual he had rather lost interest halfway through the second paragraph of his briefing notes, so instead he asked one of his advisers to give him a few key bullet points of why he was going before they landed. “It’s quite simple,” said the adviser. “Dom’s got the whole thing mapped out. All you have to do is make a couple of whistle-stops, do a few clips to camera and then get the hell out of there back to London.” “Classic Dom. So I won’t actually have to meet any of the ghastly Scots Nats or anything like that,” Boris the Not-So-Brave replied. “I can’t face meeting that Nicola Sturgeon woman or hacks who might ask awkward questions.” “Nah. It’s all sorted. The only people you’re going to meet are those we’ve checked out thoroughly to make sure they don’t cause trouble. Your job is just to remind them that if they had left the union then they would all probably have died from the coronavirus as the Scottish government would have been even more useless than yours.” “How about I also recite a poem that I published when I was editor of the Spectator?” Boris suggested. “How does it go?” “The Scotch – What a verminous race! / Canny, pushy, chippy, they’re all over the place.” “Um...” “Wait, there’s more. Battening us off with false bonhomie / Polluting our stock, undermining our economy.” “Perhaps not, prime minister. Though it is a great poem, obviously. Save it for a Tory gala fundraising dinner. The Russian oligarchs will love it.” “If you say so. And why are we going to Orkney again?” “Because it’s remote enough for protests to be kept to a minimum.” On arrival in Stromness, Boris was met by his security detail and the cavalcade of Range Rovers headed towards the harbour. The only signs of life were a few dozen protesters by the roadside waving the Scottish and EU flags and holding up placards saying “Save the NHS” and “Twatt”. Which also happens to be a village in Orkney and the locals reckon one Twatt is more than enough. Just as they reached a bare stretch of road, the cars screeched to a halt. “What’s going on?” asked Boris. “This is the ideal place for a TV clip,” said his adviser. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere...” “Precisely. So there’s no chance of you being shouted down by any protesters. And if we get the camera angle right, you’ll be able to see a bit of the town in the background.” Boris lumbered out of the car and went through his prepared routine. No one loved the Scotch more than him. Which is why they were better off in the union because without Westminster to hold their hands they would all be dead. And all talk of another independence referendum was just nonsense because they had had one back in 2014. So who cared if there was a clear majority in favour of another one, that Scotland overwhelmingly wanted to stay in the EU and that its people had seldom held a prime minister in such open contempt. “Great clip,” said the adviser. “That should win over the Nats. Now get back in the car.” Meanwhile down in Edinburgh, Sturgeon was conducting her weekly coronavirus press briefing. No, she didn’t want to score any political points during an ongoing global pandemic but she did think it was inappropriate for the prime minister to have come up to Scotland while people were still dying to crow about how much he had done for the union when the UK as a whole had the highest mortality rate in Europe. And yes, she would have been happy to have met Johnson if he had been polite enough to request a meeting and she would also have reminded him that though the money from Westminster was very welcome, it was still only borrowed money. So if Scotland had been independent, it could have borrowed the money itself and probably spent it a whole lot better as its general handling of the coronavirus had been a damn sight better than England’s. But as this was a public health briefing, she wasn’t going to say any of this. Later that afternoon, Boris was astonished to find himself at RAF Lossiemouth on Scotland’s east coast. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “Is this a refuelling stop?” “No,” said his adviser. “It was the only other place in Scotland where we could guarantee to keep hundreds of protesters away. But since you’re here, you might as well take a look at some new planes we’ve bought.” “Do I have to? Can’t we just go home?” “It’s only an hour or so. Just do it.” Boris tried to doze on the way back, but his adviser insisted on updating him with everything else that had gone wrong that day. The EU Brexit talks stalled. The Track and Trace targets missed yet again. SNAFU. “How was it?” asked Carrie, when Boris eventually arrived home. “Shit.” “Look on the bright side. At least you’ll never have to go there again. Not that they would have you, mind.” Sturgeon checked the polls and disagreed. Support for the SNP was up another couple of points. Now she came to think of it, she rather missed Boris now he was gone.