DAVID AND GOLIATH

Now it's been said in some quarters that I am a weak debater. That I compensate for my lack of intellectual sharpness by reverting to personal insults, deflection and, if absolutely necessary, terminological inexactitude.

Well we shall see about that.

My senior advisers are concerned, and in order to allay their fears, my press office decided to invite one of those pimple faced 16 year old No voters to Bute House to discuss the referendum. He had won a schools debating competition in Aberdeen and I thought he'd make excellent sport in front of a select band of supine journos and the usual entourage of my party lackeys.

Two of my burly new security men ushered the lad into my extravagantly furnished morning room where I awaited his arrival on my favourite Louis XVI chair.

"Well good morning laddie." I cried, dropping my Racing Post on the foot stool and trying to muster as much sincerity as possible.

"Good morning Mr Bravebelly." the boy replied. "I'm David. Nice to meet you."

Begrudgingly I shook the little urchin's hand.

"Yes. Of course." I replied. "Anyway, help yourself to the all day buffet" gesturing towards the food laden table in the corner.

"I'm fine thank you" the boy replied "By the way, I do like your tartan trews. They look very smart."

"Well thank you son. They bloody well should do. I've just had to stump up £ 250 for them. Never trust the press son. Never trust the press.

"Anyway, young David, I understand that you don't agree with my crusade to free Scotland from English chains and thus give me, er sorry, Scots the chance to define their own economic and social future. Are you mad boy? Are you English or are you simply thick?"

I glanced at my press officers and noticed the smirks of approval on their faces. This was going to be too easy.

"Well Mr Bravebelly, I simply don't understand how you can claim that giving up our partnership in the UK £ in favour of a subservient currency relationship with rUK in any way represents independence. Simple logic states that you are proposing to swap financial partnership and ownership for dependence on the currency partner you are divorcing."

A slight wobble shivered through my jowels as I fixed my eye on this wretch.

"Well, you see son, when I win freedom for Scotland, rUK will be forced to give me the currency arrangements that suit me. I'll be the leader of a nation state and they'll have to do what I say."

"Well that's not true, is it Mr Bravebelly?" replied the boy. "Only last week Ed Balls came out and said that a Labour government would most likely not allow you to share the £ in the event of a Yes vote. George Osborne has said the same thing. They would not underwrite your need to borrow £ 7bn per year and so the bond markets would only lend to you at rates equating to twice what we pay now. Moreover, long standing sources of tax revenues such as RBS, Lloyds/HBOS and the fund managers would relocate their HQs to London almost instantly. It would be capital flight on a massive scale, decimating the financial industry in Scotland."

I could barely suppress another wobble.

"Oh, I see laddie" I blurted out "It's Project Fear is it. Negatives. Negatives. Negatives. Is that all you've got son?"

"No Mr Bravebelly." replied young David, sensing the unease in his much larger opponent. "These are the clearly stated intentions of the very individuals who will assume 100% control over your preferred currency, the rUK £. They are saying that your financial relationship with rUK will be one of a complete and utter dependent. We would be on a worse footing than Greece. These are facts to be fearful of for sure. But facts they remain"

"Listen here, you squirt. We've got shed loads of oil and I'm erecting wind farms quicker than Glasgow Rangers are burning cash. In terms of commercial credibility we've got support from Monaco Jim, a bloke with some care homes and two lottery winners. My cabinet is bristling with O grades and I have the unquestioning support of every amoeba minded Scot with a chip on their shoulder. That's a heady cocktail son."

"Well it sounds like one that would give you and your fellow countrymen a vicious hangover for generations and probably explains why only 25% of Scots support your campaign" fired back the boy David. " And by the way Mr Bravebelly, what are your public sector spending plans for 2016 - 2050? What tax increases will you be budgeting for over that timescale and what do you intend to do once North Sea oil is exhausted in 2050?"

"Get him out of here!" I yelled, wobbling uncontrollably.

Two security men grabbed the boy, but he continued:

"Can you guarantee that my generation will have the same easy access to employment in London in the unlikely event that your resentful and messy divorce from rUK goes through in 2014?"

"Now!" I exploded, plunging a fist into a plate of Greggs sausage rolls and scattering the attendant lackeys.

Still the questions came:

"Is it true that an independent Scotland will decrease its tax take by up to £ 2bn per annum and more each year as the oil runs out ?"

"Aaargh!" the veins on my neck resembled the pipework at Grangemouth at full production. "I ... will not ..... be questioned .... like this!"

Finally the questions faded as the security guards hauled the wee git down the corridor and huckled him out of the building.

Princess Nicola started crying and the rest of them fled from the room.

"If that's what the majority of Scots think then we are doomed." she proffered, meekly.

I slumped back into my chair.

"Oh for God's sake stop greetin' woman. That boy doesn't speak for Scotland. I do. And don't forget it."