I sympathise with councillors about to lose their seats, their expenses and their "fact-finding" trips to semi-tropical locations. (Did you know, Glasgow is twinned with Havana. Why? In recognition of Glasgow's central role in the world's cigar industry?) Being a local councillor is extremely frustrating. People only stand for the council if: a) they have national political ambitions (most); b) they love their community and want to "put something back" (a few); or, c) think that getting on the council is the only way to make sure their bins are emptied regularly (the rest).

Once elected, they learn they are virtually impotent. Most of their money and responsibilities are simply given to them by a patronising central government. This is why local authorities spasmodically invent absurd policies, in an attempt to simulate autonomy: we've had talking CCTV lamp posts; now we're to get half-yearly refuse collections, and uniformed inspectors who will burst into our homes to make sure we aren't smoking in front of the au pair, then check our TV licences on the way out.

The media will pore over next Thursday's results, but we all know that only one of Thursday's polls really matters - the one north of the border. The game will be well and truly up for New Labour if the hairy-kneed Scottish Nationalists win a majority in the Scottish Parliament, then bring forward a referendum on total independence.

This is ironic since devolution was sponsored by the Scottish Labour Party. Indeed, the art deco carpet warehouse that shelters Scotland's Parliament was championed by Scottish Old Labour supremo Donald Dewar, a lovely man, but with no understanding of the elasticity of builders' estimates. Upon discovering that his new building was 1,000 per cent over budget, Donald made the most astute political decision of his life, and died.

Knowing the true projected oil production figures for the North Sea, my response to the Scottish Nationalists is "Goodbye, good luck, see you at Immigration". After all, most of the positions the Jocks used to fill - engineers, doctors, nannies, drunks - are now filled by Poles who charge less and speak better English. But with three years to go before The Rt Hon Member for Dunfermline East has to face an English electorate, we need a degree of damage control until next Thursday.

Tony himself still "new labours" under the delusion that the public will be sad to see the back of him. I've exploited this conceit to persuade him to adopt a low profile over the next few days. I pointed out that a temporary absence might spark a renewed upsurge of Blairism, in response to which he will have "no choice" but to heed the people and stay at Number 10 for another decade.

He's still a ball of -unfocused energy though, and is simply incapable of doing nothing. Indeed, he nearly sloped off to Iraq behind my back "to boost the troops' morale". He only changed his mind when I showed him the blizzard of Blair death threats on the internet - not from al-Qaeda, from serving British soldiers. Instead I managed to pack him off on a provincial tour of places where nobody is interested in politics.

Then the latest Royal crisis blew up unexpectedly, like those tanks Des Browne said were bombproof. Having sorted out William's love life last week, I was forced to deal with Harry's death wish. Everyone suddenly had an opinion as to whether the spare to the throne should be allowed to gallivant around Basra, with only 200 SAS bodyguards between him and the population.

Thus I was otherwise engaged when a reporter on BBC Radio Godforsaken Dump asked Tony if he would let his son go to Iraq. Tony has a low boredom threshold and wasn't listening properly. He thought the interviewer said "Tie Rack". And as Euan is a bit of a scruff, Tony answered enthusiastically that he would be delighted.