Galloway appears in town of Glenrothes to debate the referendum as part of his campaign to promote a no vote
The touring attractions soon to hit the town of Glenrothes, in Fife, include Abba Mania, a man named Elio Pace singing the songs of Billy Joel, and something called Pop-up Bowie, whose current incarnation may or may not include a nod to the Thin White Duke's plea for Scotland to "stay with us".
All are advertised at the town's Rothes Hall, along with one very incongruous show, explained in an eight-page pamphlet, which grapples with the looming independence referendum. "Two and a half thousand years ago," it reads, "Socrates declared that he was not an Athenian or a Greek but a simple citizen of the world. Albert Einstein described nationalism as an illness, the measles of mankind." It goes on: "It sickens me that the country of my birth is threatened by such obsolescent dogma. Flags and borders do not matter a jot."
The author of these words arrives in town in the late afternoon, driving a black Volvo 4X4, and dressed in togs that suggest the principal character from some noir thriller yet unmade, most of which match the colour of his car: a fedora hat, waistcoat, and daringly drainpipe trousers, set off with a white wing-collar shirt.
Within half an hour, George Galloway – the native of Dundee, MP for Bradford West, a former Labour MP for inner Glasgow, and figurehead of the Respect party – is sitting in Wetherspoon's, devouring fish and chips and granting about a dozen requests for photographs. Even a group of young people trying to find something to do outside the Poundstretcher do not take much prompting to identify him as a star of Celebrity Big Brother, though their judgment of his famous appearance in a leotard is less than charitable ("disgusting" offers 22-year-old Lyndsay Duncan, though Galloway might be cheered to hear that she and several of her friends are intent on voting against independence).
Tonight's show is another instalment of a sporadic tour titled Just Say Naw, which has been popping up in Scottish towns and cities since late last year. For its latest run, tickets are free, and the format remains simple: for the first 45 minutes, Galloway outlines the case against independence, and after a brief interval, comes back to take questions from the floor.
Such is one part of an ongoing tumult of debate, much of it taking place well outside the official Yes and No campaigns. Glenrothes – a new town, planned in the late 1940s, which residents say is now sorely lacking dependable employment and opportunities – is a particularly interesting place to sample what's going on. It's home to the HQ of Fife council, which changed hands at the 2012 local elections from an SNP-Lib Dem coalition to Labour, and it was the scene of a shock byelection win by Labour over the nationalists. If a spurt of vox-popping is anything to go by, support for the Yes and No campaigns is evenly split here, and the referendum is a hot topic of conversation.
Tonight, in front of a crowd of around 500, Galloway is joined onstage by Brian Wilson: not, rather disappointingly, of the Beach Boys, but the former MP for the now-abolished seat of Cunninghame North, and a minister in Tony Blair's government (or, as he puts it, "a mainstream Labour guy"). The two are apparently long-standing friends, but unlikely allies, both politically and rhetorically: Wilson talks about "the refragmentation of Europe", while Galloway does great circuits of the stage, roaring his contempt for the SNP, his belief in what remains of the socialist dream, and his insistence that class will always trump questions of nationality.
Their basic argument goes something like this. Scotland's presence in the union acts as a brake on the more swivel-eyed free-marketry that runs riot in the Conservative party, partly thanks to the 58 non-Tory MPs it sends to Westminster. If independence comes, what remains of the UK will face Tory government "in perpetuity" and be run on the basis of economic liberalism gone truly mad. The only way for its new neighbour to keep up will be to join in a race to the bottom – which, says Galloway, the SNP will be only too happy to do.
To all intents and purposes, then, Scotland would remain in thrall to Westminster and the City of London. Or, as Galloway puts it: "You get divorced, but your wife's going to keep your credit card, and have control over what you spend it on."
There is but one problem: all this tends to sound like a counsel of despair, when places like Glenrothes could surely do with a little hope. I put that point to Galloway over dinner. By way of inspiration, he offers a vision of "a real Labour government, on both sides of the border … of the kind that we once took for granted". Good luck with that, I tell him. "Well, I'm trying my best," he says.
On stage, Galloway does his best to barnstorm through any weaknesses in his argument. And what he brings to the independence debate is clear from the off: for all that the No side seems to be in front – the most recent poll has support for independence on 28% – the Better Together campaign has been singularly lacking in passion and pizazz; whereas here, it arrives in spades, as the more pro-Galloway sections of the audience agree.
"Brilliant," says 67-year-old John Stark. "This has got real sparkle. But so far, the No campaign has been really insipid."
Ken Allan, 68, adds: "It needs a shot up the bum."
Even if it gets one, there will be plenty of people who remain staunch supporters of the Yes campaign – like the healthy smattering of pro-independence voices who show up to try and take Galloway to task. "It's what I was expecting," says Callum Jenkins, 24, a law student. "Just the usual arguments, really: we're too small and weak to go it alone, so we have to keep things as they are. It's pish."
Once Galloway and Wilson have left the stage, the former takes up residence in the foyer, where he signs copies of two books that shine a light on his singular politics: his Fidel Castro Handbook, and his account of the sectarian ugliness experienced by the Celtic manager, Neil Lennon. According to its blurb, the latter recounts "the history of Scotland's shame, anti-Irish Catholic racism and bigotry" – which, Galloway somewhat controversially claims, could be reawakened if Scotland secedes.
Once again, there are serial requests for selfies, before Galloway gets back in his 4X4 and drives into the night. On his own terms, then, a win: as the Pop-up Bowie show would have it, he manages to look like a hero – at least for one day.
George GallowayScottish independenceScotlandJohn Harristheguardian.com © 2014 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds |
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