WHEN sorry seems to be the hardest word, does that suggest it’s pointless?

This week, Boris finally blurted out an apology for his gross buffoonery but by saying sorry in instalments he looked as a contrite as fox with a mouthful of chicken feathers.

Yet, it begs the question; what’s the point of an apology if it’s not heartfelt and personal? In recent times, First Minister Nicola Sturgeon apologised on behalf of the nation for the wrongs inflicted upon on the gay community. Yet, while there are many who applauded the sentiment, many more question the strategy. Wasn’t this more about government virtue signalling than salving wounds?

What’s the point in apologising on behalf of others? If the entire point of apology is to display regret and seek absolution there has to be an act of wrongdoing committed. Miss Sturgeon and the SNP Executive can’t be blamed for Scotland’s inability to drag itself out of the dark ages. And if you can’t be blamed it’s axiomatic you can’t bathe in the applause an apology would otherwise generate.

State-sponsored mia culpas, for the most part don’t wash. We don’t care when Tony Blair apologies for slavery. (Try Iraq, instead Tony where you can assume personal responsibility).

And when Gordon Brown apologised for his boss’s behaviour in Iraq this smacked of an ex-politician reaching for statesmanship rather than accepting complicity. By going into the detail of Blair’s actions, Brown offered more of an apologia, a formal defence of the action.

And where will these virtue signalling apologies end? Should the Scottish Parliament apologise for Scotland’s role in slavery? No, because it should be a given. Should the First Minister apologise for Scotland’s performance in Argentina in ’78? For the brutalist architecture of Sixties Glasgow? Ha. For the cost of the Scottish Parliament Building? Well, perhaps. For Lorraine Kelly?

Apologising for others is all too often a strategy in self-elevation. I should know. In another lifetime, (1979) I found myself on an Israeli kibbutz set to volunteer for a summer stint of pear picking. But there was a problem to overcome; my chums in socialist endeavour from Johnstone had arrived some weeks earlier and been involved in some boisterous behaviour. (Drunk in charge of a dishwasher being one complaint). As a result, the lady in charge of the volunteer programme blocked my entry. What I did then was unforgivable; I apologised to her for the behaviour of my all too-sociable chums.

As it turned out, the day was saved by the orchard manager who Trojan work ethic, but the personal battle was lost. I was written into history as an apologist. As a result, my invite to Joe Day’s (first) wedding was (rightfully) torn up.

All too often, sorry seems to be the easiest word. The apologies, for example, attached to alleged sexual harassment cases, are all to often simply air speak.

Kevin Spacey’s lame offerings emerge as an attempt to deflect from greater accusations to come. (That seems also to be the case with Harvey Weinstein.) And comedian Louis CK’s reductive approach to apology, again almost apologia, was at the same time self-aggrandising; “The power I had over these women is that they admired me,” he claimed. “And I wielded that power irresponsibly.” Now I’m aware of the extent of the impact of my actions.”

My goodness, he’s blaming his own success. At least Dustin Hoffman’s sorry for his alleged harassment claim of 1985, (“I am sorry. It is not reflective of who I am”) arrives with a measure of self-awareness.

That’s not to say we should banish the apology. It was funny when Jeremy Clarkson blasted Gordon Brown with adjectives that would comfortably into the barrel of an AK47. What was even funnier was the presenter’s forced mia culpa (BBC protocol) in which he held onto every abuse except the comment about the former PM’s eye.

It revealed so much about Clarkson. And that’s why there is something rather refreshing about those who echo the sentiments of the six feet four inch redneck that was John Wayne who in She Wore A Yellow Ribbon declared; “Never apologise, it’s a sign of weakness.”

When Alex Salmond is impenitent about his becoming a Moscow mule, carrying the packloads of dis-information for a nation that kills dissenters, we learn so much more of the man. The great thing about Trump (words I never imagined writing) is that he apologises for nothing and amorality floods out. And When Brendan O’Carroll was asked about Mrs Brown’s girl Fiona Delaney having squirreled £2m into a Mauritian account the comedy star’s response to BBC journalists was “feck off.” No apology necessary, he deemed. And saying nothing tells us everything.

Apologies then can work and have value. But they have to be of the moment and heartfelt. On that basis, I apologise for apologising on behalf of my pals.