To Perth for the Scottish party conference.
Ghastly weather, ghastly place, ghastly people. Mundell said they were not thinkers; he didn't tell me that they were unreconstructed thatcherite boneheads. And so old - I thought I had strayed into a meeting of the pensioners' party.
Talk about right-wing? The hall just about froze over when I mentioned civil partnerships. Though at least half of the audience were so doddery that they were already asleep.
Had to slap down some idiot in a kilt who claimed to be party vice-chairman. Everyone called him Biggles. No idea why.
Bella wanted me to stay for a cup of tea but, frankly, an hour and 20 minutes of the conference was as much as I could stand.
I have had it up to here with the jocks. They are on their own for the May elections, when they can sink or swim. (Sinking seems more probable.)
Next year, I'll send Osborne.
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