While the roof caves in at the Scottish Parliament, the bottom falls out of democracy. While it's okay for the government, police and local councils to make TV stars of us all as we go about our business - without release forms, I might add - what I want to know is why can't I stand in the street with a camcorder without being hassled?

It's happened to me a few times now. One night in Glasgow's Central Station, I was innocently shooting the grand Victorian interior and the weary travellers, no doubt just off the London crate. Within five minutes I was huckled - not by the cops but by a private security outfit. The two guys in donkey jackets looked more sheepish than anything and so gormless they wouldn't get a gig at Jumpin' Jaks, which is saying something. So I tell them I'm a filmmaker. Light blue touchpaper and retire. It takes a while but they get all excited and one of them starts on about how he's a martial arts expert. Could I use a stunt man? Sure, you can start by throwing yourself under that train on platform 2. So he offers me his business card, a sorry looking thing that looked like he'd just printed it on one of those machines you get on platforms. As I took it, you could have lit a fag on his beaming mug.

Then comes a slight caution - it's just that we answer to the Transport Polis, says his mate, we're only here to turf out the scum, y'know? I think, you pair of James Blunts, shame on you. You're on minimum wage and dangerously close to scum status yourselves. Oh really? I say, widening my eyes and noticing the Other Guy has his eyes locked on my 34Ds.

Right on cue two burly, fluorescent-jacketed cops sidle up, looking like a couple of Weebles. Aye, aye, says one, and what are you filming? I'm not, I say, with a sad little pout, they beat you to it. She's a filmmaker, says Martial Arts, adding, she's here on a recce - loving his newfound movie parlance. Oh is she? gives it the other Weeble, turning to see my eyelashes doing overtime. Then it clicked - I knew this guy - just as a flicker of recogition crossed his face too. I've seen you somewhere, no? he asks, where was it? Then I remember - he's a punter from where I used to do my dancing. Suddenly my recall kicks in - this guy, out with his rugby-playing pals, called my pal, Danielle, to their table one night and he was so gassed he cheekily demanded change after accidentally slipping a twenty in her thong when he was only in for a tenner. She was affronted, well, as much as you could be, standing topless and smiling and in desperate need of the cash to clear the credit cards, the wee soul (32B).

Armed with this knowledge, I smile at the cop, straighten myself and say - sure! Can you give me two ten spots for that, darling? Oh, I remember!! How you doin'? Have you scored lately?

The long arm of the Law suddenly turns greyer than Glasgow, birls on his heel and him and his pal weeble back to where they came from. By now Martial Arts and Other Guy are practically on the floor. There's the tits, I tell them as we watch them go, my arse is out of here. Oh but it's a nice wee arse, says Martial Arts, affirming why I'm still single. See you later, if I'm unlucky.

Defeated but not down, I take my trusty camcorder and walk out the Hope Street exit. Later I found out Scotrail charges 500 quid an hour if you want to shoot in their stations. Supply your own gun.