Glasgow

When I told our blogs editor about an independent survey claiming that shooting was worth £2 billion to the rural economy, he didn't believe me. 'Are you sure it's not £2 million, Camilla?' But no. I duly went and checked for him, and £2 billion is indeed the figure. The amount spent on shooting (£2.5bn), is almost ten per cent of the total amount spent annually on outdoor recreation, which has been measured at £27 billion. The problem with shooting, as with many other rural or field sports, is people's perception. Fair enough — after all, not many people have their own grouse moor.

If you want a laugh, and I suspect you do, take a look at the Team Scotland parade uniform for the 2014 Glasgow Commonwealth Games. It’s awful. A kilt that looks like a picnic blanket (note to English: not all kilts look like picnic blankets) and a lurid blue shirt that looks like a headache waiting to happen. It’s an astonishing colour, at once mottled and shiny, like an old Magic Eye drawing. If you stare at it for long enough, and allow your eyes to go funny, you can totally make out exactly why you don’t live in Glasgow. Scotland being Scotland, and this being now, all of this stuff matters hugely. Poor Salmond must be furious. I mean, he’s not going to go and pose for a group photo with that lot, is he? It would be a disaster.

[audioplayer src="http://traffic.libsyn.com/spectator/TheViewFrom22_10_April_2014_v4.mp3" title="Fraser Nelson and Angus Robertson debate Scottish independence" startat=32] Listen [/audioplayer]Sometimes it is easy to understand why countries break up. Some founder on the rocks of their internal contradictions. Others are historical conveniences that have simply run their course. Czechoslovakia was an artificial construct, a country with two languages and cultures, which split soon after the Iron Curtain fell. The division of Cyprus in 1974 marked the end of the fraternity between the island’s Turks and Greeks. The partition of India was driven by trouble between its Hindus and Muslims.

When the ticket collector asked to see my ticket, I took the opportunity to ask what time my connection left Birmingham New Street. ‘Are you travelling onwards with the Vag?’ he said. ‘Excuse me?’ I said. ‘The Vag! Virgin!’ he said, irritated by my ignorance. I laughed at him. His expression remained official. He touched the screen on his portable machine and presented me with a card printed with the information. Then I went to the lavatory, one of those spacious ones with a curved door that slides back with a hiss at the touch of a button. As I lifted the seat, a voice said, ‘This is Ron Burgundy speaking. Welcome to the train throne, or, as the Brits call it, the privy.’ I looked around in surprise, trying to locate the loudspeaker.

George Galloway is unhappy. One of his interlocutors on Twitter has told him to ‘Fuck off back to England’. Gorgeous George is in Glasgow for the first in a series of roadshows in which he sets out his case for Scotland remaining part of the Union and he’s not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Not even to England. This will disappoint his many critics. But Galloway has a new, higher calling: saving whatever remains of the British left. To do that he must first save Britain. Which means persuading his fellow Scots they should remain a part of the United Kingdom. Like a latter-day Othello, he loves us not wisely but too well.

There isn’t a Scottish politician in living memory who hasn’t been on the Caledonian Sleeper. I always imagined Donald Dewar folding himself up in his berth, he was so tall. He was notoriously sniffy about the company he kept in the bar and once recounted the horror he felt when — stuck in snow — he was forced to fraternise with practically the rest of the Labour front bench for 22 hours somewhere south of Carlisle. Journalists tend to be more comradely. The other night, I took the sleeper in tow with an old family friend, the BBC reporter Allan Little. Over Glenfiddich and cheese we exchanged scurrilous gossip and book recommendations before, just north of Watford, he made his long way back to the Edinburgh end of the train.

Earlier this week, I was part of a panel on Newsnight Scotland discussing the latest - some would say, belated - efforts designed to improve Glasgow's dismally underachieving state schools. That they need improvement is beyond doubt. In Scotland's largest city, only 7% of state-educated pupils leave school with five good Higher passes. In Scotland as a whole a mere 220 children from the poorest 20% of neighbourhoods achieved three As at Higher (the minimum grades required for admission to leading universities such as St Andrews). As I said on the programme, this should be considered a national scandal. More than that, a disgrace. (Like Fraser, I wish more people were angry about these things.) To be fair, Glasgow City Council is trying.