I think I can safely say Martin Bell, the erstwhile journalist and MP, doesn’t like e-mails. His responses to mine could be described as business-like at best, curt at worst.

Mr Bell very kindly wrote what’s known as a cover blurb for my novel, “Friendly Fire”, when it was published two years ago. The incident central to the plot took place in the first Gulf War, when he was just a mile or two away. He was well versed in what happened for real and I wrote to him to ask if he would read my manuscript and write a paragraph for the jacket. He said he would be delighted, but I didn’t think that a man as busy as he would bother. He did. And how.

My editor had already finished with the manuscript, but with the unerring eye of an awfully good reporter, Martin spotted a number of typos, a French grammatical error and a misspelling of the word “mujaheddein”. He even had the decency to enjoy my story. So when I learned he was due to appear at Glasgow’s “Aye Write” festival, I e-mailed him and offered to take him to dinner, by way of thanking him. “Fine,” he replied.

He was staying in one of Glasgow’s top hotels. We met there and had an aperitif. Later, over dinner, he entertained me with anecdotes of his life, which kicked my tales and travels high, wide and handsome into touch.

We talked about his white suit, his times in Northern Ireland, Africa and Bosnia and the soldiers we both knew. I enjoyed his company immensely.

He spoke of his dislike of the Birt-era BBC and how he was told to leave after standing as a sleaze-busting MP in the 1997 election. He said that of all the scary moments in his war reporting career, the most frightening was meeting Neil and Christine Hamilton on the village green in Tatton in the run-up to the election.

“Why don’t you stand as an independent against Michael Martin in Glasgow,” he asked over coffee. “You’d be just the chap to take on Mr Speaker.”

I shook my head and flashed back to the last time I was in Inverness. A woman strode up to me in the street and collared me. “We like what you write in the Courier, why don’t you stand for Parliament?”

“Oh, politics isn’t for me,” I said.

“But you are for the people,” she replied, “and the people would be for you.”

Now with Martin Bell behind my campaign, I began to like the idea. I pictured myself rising to my feet and clutching my lapels to make my maiden Commons speech as the member for Clamjamfry South.

My manifesto has long been written.

The abolition of the jury system and its replacement with a panel of judges; full life term sentences for murderers, rapists, child abusers and violent recidivists; a series of new, large, basic jails across the UK, built by the convicts who will occupy them; a revamping of the parole and legal aid system; the abolition of automatic early releases; victims’ rights to have primacy over offenders’ rights; a mandatory DNA database and ID card programme for all; the banning of so-called tonic wines and alcopops; chewing gum companies to pay for removing their product from pavements; the disbandment of Celtic and Rangers, the abolition of reality TV programmes; I could go on.

Martin Bell and I said farewell. “If you’re going to be in London over the summer I’ll repay your hospitality,” he said. “Come for dinner with my buddies, Peter O’Toole and David Soul.”

But despite that fantastic invitation, I wasn’t listening. I was working out how much the allowances would be worth.

There could be healthy first class air fares between my constituency and Westminster, I could lease my flat while occupying a taxpayer-funded pad in Pimlico and, of course, I could get my mum to run my office and my uncle Jim to be my researcher.

When’s the next election?

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