In the hushed, wood-panelled corridors of modern Westminster, a peculiar species now thrives: the career politician. Armed with focus-grouped soundbites and a transient loyalty to any cause that might secure a majority, they are a pale imitation of the political titans who once bestrode the Commons.
One such giant was Willie Ross, Secretary of State for Scotland from 1964-70 and 1974-76, whose formidable legacy is dissected in a compelling new biography by journalist John MacLeod. His story is not merely a nostalgic trip down memory lane; it is a stark indictment of the intellectual and moral poverty that characterizes today's political landscape.
The Schoolmaster Who Commanded the Chamber
Ross was no Oxbridge smoothie. A former schoolmaster from Ayrshire, he was a product of the harsh, socialist-fired culture of the Red Clydeside. He carried its values into Westminster not as a trendy accessory, but as an unshakeable core belief. His power did not come from media training or a slick social media presence, but from a blistering intellect, a commanding authority, and a profound sense of duty.
MacLeod paints a picture of a man who could silence the braying opposition with a single, steely glare. He was fiercely intelligent, often memorising complex briefs to outmanoeuvre opponents in debate. He treated the House of Commons with a reverence that today’s MPs seem to have forgotten—it was a cockpit of debate, not a television studio.
A Record of Steel and Substance
Ross’s tenure was defined by monumental, tangible achievements that reshaped the Scottish nation:
- Economic Powerhouse: He fiercely defended and propelled Scotland's industrial might, overseeing the rise of giants like Ravenscraig, Linwood, and Bathgate.
- The White Fish Authority: He revolutionised the fishing industry, bringing stability and prosperity to coastal communities.
- Social Justice: A relentless drive to improve housing, championing the demolition of squalid slums and their replacement with new towns and homes.
- Unapologetic Unionism: He believed utterly in the Union, but in a partnership where Scotland’s voice was heard loud, clear, and with respect—not through grievance but through strength.
This was a man who governed with conviction, not polls. He didn’t simply manage decline; he pursued a positive, industrial vision for Scotland with relentless vigour.
The Dwindling of Political Stature
The contrast with the present day could not be more painful. Where Ross was substance, we now have spin. Where he had principle, we have partisanship. Where he had a lifetime of experience before entering politics, we have careerists who have never worked outside of it.
Today’s politicians, MacLeod argues, are largely interchangeable pipsqueaks. They are defined by their malleability, their reliance on advisors, and their terror of the daily news cycle. The concept of a minister actually knowing their brief inside out, let alone mastering it to the degree Ross did, seems almost quaint.
The art of statesmanship has been replaced by the science of public relations. The result is a hollowed-out political culture, devoid of the weighty intellect and granite conviction that figures like Willie Ross embodied.
A Lesson Lost on Modern Politics
John MacLeod’s biography is more than a history book; it is a mirror held up to the present. The decline from the age of Ross to the age of the soundbite is a story of how politics lost its way, trading authority for accessibility and depth for headlines.
Willie Ross was a colossus from a different age—an age that expected, and respected, strength, knowledge, and unwavering principle. His story is a powerful reminder of what government can be when it is led by giants, not managers. It is a lesson today’s political pygmies would do well to learn, but almost certainly lack the stature to understand.
