Extracts from from David Torrance's biography of Alex Salmond

Published on Tuesday 5 October 2010 12:16

WHEN it became clear Alex Salmond had won the 2007 election, he gathered together his party staff and praised them in an impromptu speech.

• First Minister Alex Salmond pictured in his office Picture: PA

"Alex said something like 'commentators have often given the SNP credit for always being a couple of steps ahead of our opponents, but that's just because you guys have been four or five ahead of them,'" recalled one of those present, remembering the words of praise simply because they were so rarely offered.

Salmond's talent lies in being the leader of a team, if not that effective a team player. "Personally, his strength is loyalty towards individuals," reflected John Swinney in 2001. "His weakness, I suspect, is that he pushed people very, very hard, but then he's a political leader."

This is where an important, yet seldom acknowledged, aspect of Salmond's character comes into play. "It clearly matters how a leader works - or cannot work - with his colleagues," the political commentator Andrew Rawnsley said of Gordon Brown, "whether he responds to crises and setbacks calmly or in a hysterical fashion; and how he treats his staff." There is no doubting that Salmond can, and frequently does, treat his staff appallingly.

"Some of the people who worked with him in his Aberdeenshire office had a really rough time, a hard time," recalled a senior Nationalist, "but they survived, they came through. He was explosive in his rage but many of us can be." Salmond is a demanding boss and, if he feels a desired piece of work or project is not up to scratch, he can be merciless in his criticism. "It's crushing, a soul-destroying emotional train wreck for an individual," recalled one former Westminster aide.

Salmond's language, however, often goes beyond bland intimations of disappointment. Part of it is about letting off steam, another aspect is a genuine attempt to get the best out of people, but mostly it is just frustration at the inability of others to keep up with him. "What he demands of people around him is their absolute best," recalled another aide, "which was the great thing about him because you brought yourself to meet his standards. He was never content with half an argument, or half a speech, or half an idea, so you had to work to his level which was a challenge."

"He is one of those people who pushes you to the frontiers of your ability," agreed former aide and MSP Andrew Wilson in 2000, "both in thought and effort."

Indeed, so demanding is Salmond that one former member of staff "soon concluded that it wasn't actually possible to work for Alex to maintain a serious (outside] relationship". Phone calls can come at every hour of the day, sometimes from his bath.

His temper, however, is not completely irrational and, as some aides privately admit, more often than not he has a point. "He doesn't harbour hatred and, believe it or not, he's not a particularly argumentative person," said one. "He doesn't pick fights for the sake of it." Even if he does, an outburst is soon forgotten. "Over time the bollockings don't get to you as much," says another staffer, "and you can differentiate the serious ones from the not so serious ones.

The outbursts, perversely, are also an indication that an employee has Salmond's respect. "If he's lost confidence in you then he stops being rude," observes one, "that's how you know."

It is not just staff who end up on the receiving end. In September 2009, Salmond was accused of trying to "bully" a drinks firm, the French company Pernod Ricard, into supporting his plans for a minimum alcohol pricing scheme.

Following an unpublicised meeting in Paris with Pernod Ricard's chairman and chief executive, "senior industry insiders" were reported as having said the First Minister "was unwilling to listen to reason when the topic was discussed". "Salmond went over there and was quite aggressive," said one. "His behaviour could be considered as bullying. The people at Pernod were shocked by his behaviour." Salmond's office strongly denied these reports, claiming the meeting had in fact been "very positive". Whatever had happened at that Paris meeting, Salmond could certainly be abrasive in meetings, and occasionally patronising. During an exchange of views on the cancellation of the Glasgow Airport Rail Link, for example, he told Steven Purcell, leader of Glasgow City Council, to "behave like a grown-up".

The parallels with Gordon Brown are plain. According to Rawnsley, to "admirers, who include people on his staff at whom he has unleashed his furies, those volcanic rages are a price worth paying for (Brown's] other qualities as a leader." The same is true of Salmond's staff. "Some are starry eyed and they'll put up with a lot as a result," observes a senior Nationalist. "But he's less good at getting on with people as they get older. Perhaps it's because he hasn't had children so hasn't had to adjust how he deals with people as they age and mature. He's uncomfortable with that. When those bright young things become slightly older, fatter and perhaps less bright, they end up having a slightly sparkier relationship with Alex. He still enjoys being surrounded by them, but finds it difficult at the same time."

Other veteran Nationalists have more direct views. "I have a tremendous amount of respect for Alex and all that he's achieved," said one. "I just don't like him very much." Despite innumerable tales of bollockings, public dressings down and other verbal onslaughts, most take care to refer to Salmond's "basic humanity". "I'm sure we've all had our knocks but that doesn't mean he's a bad person," reflects Jim Eadie, who worked with Salmond at the House of Commons. Salmond can also take personal kindnesses to extremes. On his first visit to the US as First Minister, for example, he learned that his Washington fixer, Alison Duncan, was ill. "She was bed bound," remembers Colin Pyle, a former aide. "He left his advisers, jumped in a cab, bought flowers, arrived at her door on the outskirts of DC, walked in (he knew she left the door open), stood in her lounge and sang an old Burns lullaby until she came down. She was startled to say the least...but it gave her energy for months."

"There's a basic humanity there," observes a staffer, "and he's always a bit embarrassed if you catch him being nice." Being nice could, after all, be interpreted as vulnerability, as would conceding fallibility, something Salmond finds very difficult. One explanation for Salmond's behaviour is a need to demonstrate that he is in control of any given situation. At press briefings, for example, I have watched aides interrupt breathlessly, reminding him that a live interview or some other pressing engagement beckons. Salmond does not flinch, instead carrying on and even prompting another question. It is a small thing, but it shows that he is in charge and will decide when it is time for him to go.

Salmond is incredibly hard working. "Oh definitely, that's never really been one of my faults," he once said. "I've never been slothful. There's plenty of the other deadly sins that I've been accused of but sloth and laziness hasn't been one of them." He is not, however, a morning person, preferring to begin the day at around 10am (one of the many reasons he preferred Westminster to Holyrood), only compromising should the Today programme require an 8am interview, and then working into the small hours.

One charge, however, is that Salmond does not 'do' policy. "He was only a spin machine," judged Jim Sillars, "spinning in a policy vacuum." This, like many of Sillars' criticisms over the years, contains a kernel of truth that has been blown out of proportion. It is true that most policy areas do not engage Salmond beyond whatever tactical advantage they may offer over his opponents (energy is an exception); indeed, many former aides cannot recall ever having had a detailed policy discussion with their former boss. As a result, Salmond does not appear to have thought very deeply about the fundamental nature of Scottish society in any depth, preferring to parrot clichd lines about the superiority of Scottish education and the untouchability of the NHS.

Indeed, Jim Eadie believes that Salmond lacks Sillars' "intellectual curiosity". "He's not someone who constantly reviews his position on issues," he says, "he knows what he believes, although he's very pragmatic with a capital 'P'."

There is a stubborn streak, particularly noticeable once he has reached a decision. "When you try to explain something to him he'll pick it up but get the wrong end of the stick," says one economic adviser, "it's then very difficult to say 'no Alex, you can't do that', his mind is made up."

Like de Gaulle, Salmond is comfortable with power and disconcertingly calm in a crisis. "I've never seen Alex get worried, ever; he doesn't get worried, he gets focused," recalls one former aide. "Even during the Glasgow Airport stuff, foot and mouth, Trump and so on, he'd stay completely focused while everyone around him worried about it." When a reporter asked Salmond if he was at all "daunted" on becoming First Minister, "I don't do daunted" was his simple, and unequivocal response.

Salmond enjoys the trappings of office and controls his civil servants with the same iron grip that typifies his approach to the SNP. In meetings with officials, however, Salmond can go on a bit. "He can be," says one Scottish Government insider, "a terrible pub bore." The First Minister certainly likes telling stories, most often about his earlier careers at the Scottish Office and Royal Bank of Scotland.

There is also a side to Salmond that likes the helicopters, smart hotels and chauffeur-driven cars that go with the territory. He rarely walks more than a few yards, protesting that persistent back problems prevent train travel for any length of time. And even before he became First Minister, Salmond insisted upon staying at the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh and the Marcliffe in Aberdeen at SNP expense. As one former staff member remarked, "the party paid for Alex Salmond in a way it never had with Gordon Wilson".

Others believe Salmond has mellowed with age. "Alex has the ability to put people's backs up," commented Mike Russell in 2001, "(although] not as much as he used to." Veteran nationalist Iain Lawson, meanwhile, detects a change between his first period as leader and Salmond redux. "I think Alex Salmond today is quite different from the Alex Salmond of before," he says. "He is much more responsible and realises that if he has big plans then he has to have big backers. He's changed. He's improved. I think he's got a lot of humour now - that wasn't a strong point the first time round - so he's learned to manage aspects of his personality. He can now laugh at himself and joke at his own expense, and I no longer see him as the slightly pompous guy he was earlier on." What, then, of the real Salmond, the private and non-political Alex? As one senior Nationalist often asks: "What's going on behind the eyes?" The answer, at least according to Salmond, is not much. "I don't tend to suffer from crises of confidence," he once said. "If I have moments of self-doubt they wouldn't be about politics." So what had been his last non-political crisis, asked a reporter determined to penetrate the Salmond shell. "Oh," he murmured in response. "I have doubts about all sorts of things." Such as? "They are personal, to do with beliefs and faith and things."

The real Mr Salmond, of course, does exist; he is just largely hidden from view.Roseanna Cunningham reckoned his "circle of friends (was] very tiny in the sense (of] people he would let his hair down with", while former SNP stalwart Isobel Lindsay thought there was something that prevented "him from having a relationship of relaxed equality" with those around him. "Jim Sillars apart, I believe he has not looked upon anyone as a genuine equal for some time," says someone who once knew him well.

Indeed, it is difficult to identify many close friends. He often golfs with what the journalist John MacLeod called "his young and biddable aide, Geoff Aberdein, part-special counsel, part-Labrador", as he does with Roger Cherry, his driver and "unofficial bodyguard" who was even relocated to the north-east of Scotland in order to be closer to his boss. Durable friendships are rare - fellow minister Stewart Stevenson is an exception to the rule - while some, such as that with Kenny MacAskill, have often resembled an emotional rollercoaster. (In the mid-1990s MacAskill said of Salmond: "Politics for him is a game of chess. He doesn't burn with anger and rage about poverty in Scotland. It would be wrong to say he's not genuinely committed, but he's got no fire within him.") There is also a curious reticence when Salmond encounters friends from school or university, almost as if those parts of his life have been compartmentalised or shut off.

The former diplomat Paul Henderson Scott put this down to Salmond being "hampered a little by shyness". "It makes for a certain awkwardness," he added, "or lack of spontaneous warmth, in his dealings with his immediate colleagues." There is also a touch of self-consciousness, particularly when it comes to his weight; something not helped by his habit of eating late. Indeed, television news crews are made aware that the First Minister does not like to be filmed getting out of his official car, while he has a habit of positioning himself during interviews so that the left - presumably superior - side of his face is to the fore.

"The ego and the arrogance is the armour that you put on to survive in the harsh world of politics," observes Jim Eadie. Similarly, another former aide got the impression that lurking in Salmond "was something of the chippy, working-class boy who made it to St Andrews and has been determined to show how much cleverer he was than everyone else" since.

What, then, drives Alex Salmond? There is no doubt that it is an instinctive belief in Scottish independence, however loosely defined. "The utter, implacable certainty of his convictions," thought Charles Kennedy in 1990, "the self assuredness of his stance, is what fuels him along." Indeed, Mike Russell said walking down a street with Salmond was like watching a 'crusade to personally convert every Scottish voter'.

He could have made a fortune as one of the most talented economists of his generation, says Andrew Wilson, but he chose public service. In a cynical, political world, his legacy has been selfless service to party and country before personal gain.

And legacy is uncommonly important to Salmond, even for a politician. "What's his driving force?" asked a long-standing associate, rhetorically. "Leaving something useful behind. Remember that he's childless. I just think he wants not to leave nothing."