NO SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL AS BLAIR BEGINS TO PACK HIS BAGS

THERE has been much written about the results of the election last week. As we all know, the voting system turned out to be complicated. "It was like doing Sudoko in the dark with a blunt crayon," my dad told me. Parties lost out due to spoiled papers and the people of Scotland have now lost faith in the voting system.

I don't think my opinion of politics is anywhere near valid, but after ten years of Tony, I do know I have the right to look back.

I am old enough to recall the Labour government's defeat in 1979; I can remember the outpouring of anger aimed at the Tory government in Scotland in the 1980s and mid-1990s; and yet the one incident that stands out amongst all of those flashbacks is the moment when Tony Blair took over Downing Street ten years ago.

The night of his election glory in 1997, my daughter, then aged 11, stayed up to watch it unfold. She fell asleep as the night wore on but, at the very minute Blair won and the cameras panned to his face, my child woke up with a start, stared at the telly, pointed at our new Prime Minister and screamed: "He is the devil!" And then fell back asleep.

It may have been just a child's nightmare but she turned out to be right.

I had a deep feeling of horror as I watched the grinning fool standing waving. I couldn't ever quite put my finger on the revulsion I felt towards Blair but, having worked in a bar in the roughest part of Glasgow, I have learned to trust my gut feelings.

I was always good at sussing a creep on first sight. Any bar worker worth their salt will tell you that they have built-in radar for trouble-makers and smell them from 20 feet. Tony Blair was the man I wouldn't have served in my pub in the Calton. In fact, I would have barred him.

Back in 1997, the Cool Britannia brand fooled the masses and I watched Tony Blair with great interest.

Observing his carefully-scripted grief over the Diana's death and watching his butt-kissing parties for pop stars and top comics such as Eddie Izzard made my skin crawl.

Being a stand up comic during his premiership has been a wonderful gift to a comedian, only to be beaten by the punchlines that George Bush has provided.

I have played to a cross-section of the population up and down the country since 1997. Every time I ask an audience: "Who voted for Mr Blair?" not one person to this day has admitted to electing that man; you would have thought someone would have put a hand up. That made me realise that people were embarrassed or ashamed of their Prime Minister.

Ten years on and with a dossier of allegations of cronyism, the peerage scandal and the war in Iraq, I know my feelings of anger were right on the button in 1997.

I don't really know much about manifestos, campaigns and detailed agendas but I know this: millions of children in Scotland are still living below the poverty line and millions will be spent on Trident missiles.

That alone should be enough for the Labour Party to hang their heads in shame.

The war in Iraq is lost. We had no right to be there from the outset and the debacle over "weapons can hit us in 45 minutes" is surely embarrassing. I can't get a pizza delivered in 45 minutes.

For a man who claims to be a committed Christian, I would love to know where he hides his morals. Probably the same place he hid the fact that he is Scottish by birth, which is cool by me, but ironic when I watched him hint last week that the UK might be getting a "Scottish" prime minister!

While every other world leader celebrates their roots, ours denies his.

Ten years ago when Mr Blair grinned his way to No 10, top of the charts was Things Can Only Get Better and the

Labour Party milked that tune to death as the Tony-wagon rolled into town.

It may mean nothing, but the No 1 song in election week was the song Beautiful Liar and that is a good swansong for the man who really didn't make things better.

Politics isn't my strongest point; unlike Tony I can admit I am not always right; but I know a shady, slimy, lying two-faced git when I see one and even I was right about that.

JUSTIN Timberlake was on stage in Glasgow last week and I missed seeing him as I had to go do a comedy show in Southport!

I was gutted. I love his hit song Sexyback. I am mad about the boy.

I suggested to The Scotsman that I should be the one to interview him, though I assume the thought of a middle-aged woman drooling over a young hunk was too much for the editor to even consider.

Instead, I sat sulking on the beach in sunny Southport. Then a seagull pooed on my back, a big, white, drippy mess down my T-shirt. Less Sexyback and more smelly back ...

Never mind, I am off to New York soon to perform my one-woman play The Point of Yes and I can start stalking my star as soon as I hit the US. Look out Justin!

EVEN DRUNKEN LOUTS DON'T FANCY ME!

I LOVED the wonderful hot weather last week. Glasgow looks great in the sunshine, but it does bring out the drunken loonies.

I call them "The Sunshine Boys" - all wrinkly, slabbery, brown and as drunk as a royal in a Chelsea hotspot.

I walked past a collection of can crashers on Saturday. "Hey there, sexy - nice legs," one voice shouted in my direction.

Smarting at the blatant sexual hollers, I turned and shouted: "That's bloody enough! Don't be so dirty - I am someone's mother!"

The men looked startled and with shaky, wobbly, drunk fingers they all pointed at a young woman across the street. "We weren't talking to you, fatty," one spat at me. "You have hairy legs like Kevin Keegan. Now move so we can see the sexy woman across the road."

MEDIA NEGOTIATOR AT THREE, PR EXECUTIVE BY 13? ABI'S GETTING THE HABIT EARLY ON

HOW media savvy are toddlers? Last week in this column, I wrote about my nephew Shaun, who promptly read the piece about him out to his three-year-old sister, Abi.

Upset at the attention Shaun was getting, she ran out of the room, slammed the door and generally acted like a teeny wee drama queen.

Then a phone call: "Why haven't you written about me in the Scottishman newspaper?"

"Well, Abi, I write about you on my blog," I answered.

"That's only on the internet and this is a real big newspaper. You must write something about me next week, so I can show everyone in nursery."

I am stunned. I am quite sure Abi will have her own PR company by the time she is in her teens. But this isn't really surprising in my family: My daughter Ashley launched her own comedy PR business at 15, during the Edinburgh Fringe in 2003. She made more cash than me that year.

It's in the blood!