SMEATON, JOHN - Self-styled scourge of terror. A smalltown nonentity thrust into the role of global spokesman, I was predisposed to disapprove of Smeaton from his first lime-light hogging interview. My irritation was compounded by his appearance in Drumfeld, intent on a charity 'cage fight'. Naturally, I refused to accommodate him: the first principle of Cung-Coe is to avoid violence unless absolutely necessary. As chants of 'Hamilton's a shite-bag' emanated from the High St, however, I was sorely tempted to teach the leotard clad poltroon a lesson. Instead, I bitterly pondered the fatuity of his demanding praise for nothing more than kicking a man when he was down (or, more precisely, on fire). Now it's alleged that he didn't kick anyone at all, but hovered on the periphery of proceedings, only coming to prominence when the dust had settled and cameras appeared. After lavishing in his unexpected celebrity, he's discovered what any countryman might have told him from the outset: the cock that crows the loudest is the first to find his neck on the chopping block.

"We'll set about ye," he famously squawked on behalf of his fellow Glaswegians. With horrible irony, Smeaton himself has now become their prey. After an initial period of indulgence, he's perceived to have become too big for the polished Ghillie brogues in which he's been swaggering around civic receptions from London to New York and Los Angeles. Despite acknowledging the part played by others in subduing the hapless assailants, he finds himself increasingly excluded from the circle of have-a-go heroes resentful that their own efforts haven't been similarly recognised. "Smeaton's all talk," they scowl bringing to mind a modern day equivalent of the tailor who killed seven flies before convincing his fellows that the notches on his sword could be accounted to desperados. Smeaton, whose public statements have evoked a band of brothers forever bonded by the co-incidence of their presence on that fateful day, can only be wounded by their revised assessment of his own role. One can only surmise why individuals ostensibly determined to avoid the limelight should denigrate someone who revels in it. Like it or not, the roles have been cast! Smeaton is the undoubted star. Can we not share his pride and enjoy his bumptious exuberance? I urge his detractors to return their daggers to their scabbards before farce becomes tragedy.

As the dark clouds of envy and contention cluster around Smeaton's briefly iridescent star, we should recognise the plight of ordinary people who subject themselves to the limelight only to be found wanting. Which of us could withstand such remorseless attention? Like participants in reality television shows, Smeaton is discovering that those who enjoy his personality are less likely to make public their opinion than those who don't. "Nobody asked him to strut around blowing his trumpet," the reader might retort, but that's not the case. We invite people to express themselves and then make them egregious. Is there a more terrible reflection on our age than the sight of some unfortunate numbskull emergin from the Big Brother house, a tentative smile compressing into a pout of dismay as the disapproval of the mob becomes apparent. "We don't like you," they yell, regressing to the level of children turning on a red-headed class-mate. Let's not abandon John Smeaton to the same psychic annihilation!