Secrets of a wannabe First Minister, James Francis Murphy (aged 47 & 3/4)

Jim and Eddie plan a night on the town

Scotland’s erstwhile candidate for First Minister Jim Murphy – remembered as the only teetotaller who ever wanted more booze at football matches – may be approaching the Emergency Exit. But a copy of his secret diary has fallen into the hands of our intrepid contributor, Citizen Cuddis.

Obviously, Cudd won’t reveal its contents. Well, not anywhere but here…



Strutted purposefully along the corridors of Holyrood this morning like a cadaverous Foghorn Leghorn on a promise, copy of resignation letter proudly displayed in top pocket, playing catch-me-if-you-can with my private army of BBC reporters and cameramen. A lighting malfunction meant I had to go back outside and swagger back in again (This time like the Laird o Cockpen—is there no end to my talent?)

When I'm the new branch manager youse had better start getting ma name right, right!
When I’m the new branch manager youse had better start getting ma name right, right!

Dear diary: Why is Kezza always six steps behind me, all Cheshire Cat smile and no substance? Is she besotted with me? If so, I understand where she’s coming from; I’m besotted with me too.


Organised a ‘Hokey-Cokey-thon.’ 24 hours non-stop Hokey-Cokey (You put your other face in, you take your other face out…) to boost party membership. Our target is for a 10 percent increase in membership. We may fall short of the six people we need to meet this target but we’ll do our best.

Asked my chums at the EBC to interview me while I’m putting my right knee in because that worked so well for me before. It shows I can multi-task.


Called local Nepalese Restaurant faking a Dundee accent. Ordered a carryout supper in the name of Len McCluskey—goat’s-bollock kebabs in barbecued duck’s feet sauce for twelve people.



Worked on some scripts for my inaugural speech as First Minister in 2016. Thought the following might make a punchy opening:

“My name is James Francis Murphy, former branch manager of the armies of the North British Labour Party. Shouter of pish from Irn Bru crates. Loyal servant to the true emperor, Johannes, son of Ternan. Father to a murdered party, owner of a clapped-out career.  And I will have my vengeance over that bastard son of Cluskey, in this job or the next, (if there is one)”.


New sound bite with a patriotic ring. “…the SNP may steal our votes but they will never take our delusions!”


Ordered a tonne of hippo dung over the Internet for delivery to McCluskey’s house (I asked for the middle of the kitchen floor as the precise drop off point). Think I’ll make it a repeat order.



Hung out at the fixed-betting terminals at my local gambling joint. All my homies were there: Dougie, Mags, Ballsie, bemoaning the ignorance of the Scottish voters who let us down so badly. Nearly got three Alecs on the one-armed bandit. Typical. As Kezia says: “Jim, your always four nudges short of a jackpot.”


Hid in laundry basket at Glasgow Royal hoping to overhear some SNPbad from the cleaners. Heard nothing but praise for Nicola. No problem, I’ll Carmichael something. If the bovine one can try it so can I.


Normally, I consult my constituents on a Wednesday night. This is more difficult than ever now that I don’t have any, so went for a jog along Pathetic Quay instead. Curtains tugged shut 10 yards ahead of me as I ran. Eerie. Maybe the sun was in their eyes?

Called the Salvation Army.  Convinced them that McCluskey was on his last legs and had a nostalgic desire to hear ‘What a Friend We Have In Jesus’ played over and over and over again until he slipped away. He’s deaf I said, so you’ll need to lean hard into those drumsticks. And while you’re at it, I said, better puff those tubas like you’re intending to bringing down the walls of Jericho.

They agreed to assemble every brass instrument player from Kirkcaldy to Kirkintilloch plus a dozen extra bass drum players outside McCluskey’s house from three in the morning until the poor man popped his union-sponsored clogs.



A warm welcome awaits at the Louden (He's no a fenian is he?)
A warm welcome awaits at the Louden (He’s no a fenian is he?)

Busy day. Attended EBBC Smooch-in at Pathetic Quay. Visited old folks homes to practice shouting the biddies down. Called London Labour to reinforce the message that I am still in charge up here, despite my precipitous slide from Jimmy-come-lately via also-ran to has-been. Had to leave a message because no one answered the phone. You don’t get bank holidays on a Thursday do you?


Session with personal trainer. Trying to see how much further up my arse I can get my head to go. According to the trainer, I have reached my limit. Unless I had some vertebrae removed. Ordered lunch for McCluskey—240 very deep-pan dustbin-lid-sized Monsterama pizzas with lashings of extra Scotch Bonnet topping.


Note to self: Make a start on the blueprint for the future of the party. Tough gig this; they’ll say it’s a half-baked document written by a halfwit for the half-asleep—given half a chance.



Ordered breakfast for McCluskey. 5,000 Egg McMuffins. Airdropped. From a B52. Straight onto his conservatory roof. Brainstorming session—invented reasons why the Labour Party sank quicker than a duck-billed stegosaur in a tar pit. Shouting lessons from the president of the Town Criers Guild. Three more lessons and I won’t need a megaphone, he says.


Got a list from McT. One hundred tricky questions likely to be asked by the SNP. Spent the afternoon practicing not answering them.


Lay on the sofa all night wearing nothing but a Partick Thistle rosette and shin pads autographed by ‘Jinky’ Johnstone, repeating the mantra ‘fundilly-mundilly’ over and over until I fell asleep. It’s my way of detoxing after a hard week.



Me and my new bud Eddie are going line-dancing tonight. Don't tell any picture desks...winkety wink
Me and my new bud Eddie are going line-dancing tonight. Don’t tell any picture desks…winkety wink

Ostrich Club. Just a bit of fun. A few of us (strike that—a great many of us—who lost our seats) get together and practice sticking our heads in the sand. Everyone brings their own fire bucket. I usually win because I can plunge my head right up to my collar bones.

Evening: Dry pub crawl with current best buddy, Eddie Izzard. Izzo’s left the route to me. So we’ll head up to Paisley Road West—Ian Davidson’s old stomping ground. I thought we’d start at the Louden on Copland Road before heading towards the Toll for a dance at the Grand Old Opry and aperitifs at the District Bar. I’ve a feeling it’ll be a night to remember (or to forget, depending on the volume of Izzo’s glad rags.)


Day of rest.

OK, actually in high dependency following a scandalous 10 hour wait in A&E after that pub trip went all wrong.