brief history of John

He waves away the smoke. Dover House in London is a Grade 1 listed property and there is a strict no-smoking policy. ''I'll have a fag,'' he says, with a smile, ''and then you can

start taking pictures.'' When he was at

school in Coatbridge he lost his prefect's badge for smoking in the corridors. Fag in hand, he proceeds to pour.

Before I sit down I have a quick shifty around his huge office to see if I can spot any drink with a bit more kick (in political circles there are stories of Reid's drunken exploits that would have finished off a more fragile constitution). ''The suggestion is,'' says one political commentator, ''though he and

friends will say he is absolutely off it, he occasionally lapses and dabbles in the

drink, especially under times of stress.'' Westminster abounds with rumours of his drink problem and normally I would consider it grossly inappropriate to pry into his private life in this way. However, a short time later I take a forty foot dive into a tub of water. You've had a problem with alcohol?

''I didn't have a problem with alcohol,'' he replies before fixing me with a tough Lanarkshire stare. ''I loved it.'' And then he laughs. Thank the Lord, I say to myself, half expecting this compact political pit-bull to send me reeling over the couch. It is rumoured he has a rather short fuse, although there is no evidence of this today. It's all disarming wit and charm. ''When I started to do the Defence and the Labour front bench, I decided that the best thing that I could do was not to drink. With Defence you go into an

area that involves all sorts of difficult decisions, all sorts of matters that are

better not discussed, even in the most

relaxed circumstances.

''The best way for me to make sure that circumstances would never arise is just to stop something completely. I'm a hundred per cent guy. I do it that way. And that's never given me a problem either, not drinking. I'm not by any means a puritan. As you can see.'' He points to the well fingered packet of 20 on the coffee table. ''It doesn't come into his life anymore,'' says a friend. ''He probably doesn't need the solace of the alcohol or whatever. He can relax without it. He can work without it.''

So the whispers of the prohibitionists appear to be both wide of the mark and, by the same token, spot on. Not that Reid is overly concerned. At least, not with his personal addictions. No, John Reid has more pressing concerns. Planning Labour's strategy for the next General Election in Scotland; coping with the second anniversary, today, January 8, of the death of his wife Cathie, who died from a heart attack; and trying to adjust to the public scrutiny over his new relationship with Brazilian-born film-maker Karine Adler. ''They are head over heels about one another,'' says a close friend, ''there's no doubt about it.''

He also worries over the Premier League fate of his football team, Celtic. ''When you become Secretary of State you have to be balanced about these things.'' Out of the last eight games he's been to see, three of them have been at Ibrox, ''because David Murray was very kind and has had me in there''. Then he pauses for a moment. ''I suppose this will be some other scandal.'' There is also the problem of his car. Though not quite John ''two-Jags'' Prescott, he doesn't want to give the wrong impression. ''I've got a Jaguar car. But I did buy it when it was three years old and it only cost me #7000. I'm not really extravagant with myself.''

On top of all this remains the political

fall-out over the trench warfare surrounding Lobbygate, a cash-for-access sting by the Observer newspaper, involving an Observer journalist, and Kevin Reid, the son of the Secretary of State and Alex Barr, both employees of the public relations firm, Beattie Media. During the sting, the two men boasted of their connections to the Labour hierarchy, while Reid mentioned that his father was the Secretary of State for Scotland as they touted for lobbying business.

However, Kevin Reid had taken no cash from the mock businessman and no access was given to any minister. The story itself became less of an issue than the political reaction to it by Dr Reid (the Standards Committee, which published the official report on the affair, ruled that the allegations of cash-for-influence were unfounded). The decision, however, of First Minister Donald Dewar to order a full inquiry into the claims prompted anger from the Scotland Secretary, who felt his son was unfairly hounded.

The affair heightened tension between

the two politicians which were already characterised as ''turf wars''. How are you and Donald getting on these days, I ask, given that there was supposed to be a very public fall-out in Bournemouth? ''I promise you,'' he says, in a slightly android monotone, ''there was no fall out. Not only did I entirely

agree with Donald that it should go to the Standards Committee, I agreed it two days before the story came out. There is an excellent relationship.''

For all his protestations, the two could not be more unnatural bedfellows. Dewar is an intellectual toff from Glasgow and Reid is a Lanarkshire hardman. They have very little in common other than they are members of the Labour Party. Sources close to the two suggest Dewar doesn't trust Reid and Reid doesn't trust Dewar. Reid is the bus-driver, publican, council worker, shop manager and miner - all these things before New Labour adopted its catchphrase and went all smiley. Dewar is the pillar of the establishment to Reid's self-made man. Despite his PhD in economic history, Dr Reid is more Clyde-built, whereas Donald Dewar is, says one observer, ''to the manner born''.

And this is where it gets interesting. As politics become increasingly more like showbusiness, there is a requirement for a certain star quality in order to succeed at the highest level. Reid retains the ability to carry the movie, as well as star in it.

Dewar, on the other hand, appears more glaikit than glamorous, having recently lost his way after getting caught up in the imbroglio surrounding the resignation of his former chief of staff John Rafferty. ''There

are people who, for their own purposes, want to turn every question into Scotland versus England, Holyrood versus Westminster, Donald versus John. That is their philosophy of politics. It's not mine.'' He possesses Machiavellian skills of diplomacy and a ruthlessly analytical mind.

We turn to his son Kevin. How is he coping now? ''I wouldn't have wanted him to be in that position but I was more proud that he resisted it and just sorry that, you know, if you wrestle in the pig sty, even if you win, you come out dirty. That's the position he was in.'' It's the thing about Reid that others comment upon - his absolute loyalty to his family and his son.

In many Labour circles, party people

would say this over rode, although it was understandable, his political instinct and that's when he lost his cool.

Reid disputes this. ''I'm a father and like any father, if your son or daughter is in the

right, you defend them. You're all they've got, at the end of the day, and that's much

more important than status or power, or anything else.''

In the wake of the Lobbygate affair, Kevin Reid, 28, resigned his position at Beattie Media. Yet it was the miscarriage suffered

by his wife, Fiona Reid, amid the stress

of sustained allegations about her family,

that brought the Lobbygate affair to a depressingly low ebb.

There was a strong feeling that the intense pressure of the affair had contributed to Mrs Reid losing her baby. How did this affect everyone close to him?

''I don't think that's a natural consequence of politics. It may be a natural consequence of the way certain people conduct it, it may be a natural consequence of the intrusion of the press but, you know, how can I answer that? It's the same answer as I had to give to the reporter who turned up at 5.30am after my wife died and said 'do you mind if we ask you how you feel?''' He taks a long puff of his cigarette, his fifth.

He is incredibly vain, says one MP. ''Not as vain as George Robertson, but very vain.'' Though he has become more forehead than face recently, he has the handsome looks of a hard worker from mining stock. Not quite the lump of stew in a jacket normally found around Westminister, although he remains more pugilist than peacock.

He is much shorter than you expect, but just as well cushioned. He has swept back hair - not quite the ''duck's arse'' from his schooldays - and tough, thick shoulders. The accent is recognisably working class.

His fellow MP and close friend, former steel-worker Frank Roy, describes him as having a fantastic ability to talk to people. ''He can take a conversation, suck the whole thing in and keep the whole thing going. He's just an ordinary Lanarkshire-type man, highly intelligent with personality and a deep, deep conviction about why he is there. And that's the truth.'' Although he adds: ''He's as crabbit as hell sometimes, as well.''

Of his vanity, Reid, who is 52, admits to buying suits that cost more than the ''normal bargain basement that they sell at Slaters [menswear shop].'' He still shops there, but he's moved into ''Ralph's room'', which is to say he's paying a great deal more than the average punter would.

''You go from the #80 suits that I normally head for, and then you go to the next room and then there's Ralph's room, and then I think they've got a gold room. The last time I went into the end room I spent more than I normally do. I don't get tailor-made suits or anything like that.'' Today he is wearing a smart blue suit with a nondescript tie.

John Reid was brought up in Cardowne, which was a mining village just out the east side of Glasgow. Only two MPs ever came from around that area. One was Reid. The other, ''from the other side of the railway bridge, the other side of the tracks, I suppose, was a Mr Tony Blair. My mother used to go across the bridge and clean the houses.'' Did she clean the PM's house? ''I don't think so, I don't think so.'' He allows himself a smile.

Apart from his father, the rest of his family were miners. Cathie, his wife and childhood sweetheart, came from a family of miners. It was a mining community and an area, he says, where he inherited the values of solidarity he espouses. It wasn't impoverished, but neither was it easy. His father, a postman, ''an ordinary guy'', had a great belief that the liberation of working people was education. He encouraged his son to read. Would your father have been a Blairite, I ask him?

''That's an interesting question.'' He pauses. ''I think because of his own background he believed in listening to other people's opinion. My father's father was a staunch Presbyterian, a Church of Scotland guy, and he married an illiterate Irish-Catholic peasant called Mary Berry. So, I suppose in that sense of ancestry I'm a mongrel [Reid is the first ever Roman Catholic Secretary of State].

''One of the things he always used to say to me was 'listen to what people are saying'. So, you go in with an idea of what they are like, but listen to what they are saying and judge them on the arguments they are saying.''

It was while working for an insurance company in Glasgow, in 1968, that he first entertained the idea of politics. There was a huge storm in the city and his company was inundated with all sorts of claims. Reid was allocated the east end of Glasgow.

''It was awful. There was a young father with a kid in a room, where the water was literally running down the walls. The kid was in a box, covered up. The kid was lying, coughing its lungs off and this damp was running down the wall. The very same day there was an old lady and she was trying to buy a bag of coal. I took it up stairs for her and when we got in, the first thing I noticed was that she never had a coal fire. She wasn't completely in control of things.

''She had a gas fire. She was buying a bag of coal for a fire she hadn't got. I went and joined the Labour party.''

Educated in Coatbridge in the heart of what used to be industrial Lanarkshire, Reid went on to take a degree in history at Stirling University and then a PhD in economics. During his studies he drove a bread van around the campus to earn some extra money and was known as ''the Pieman''.

His thesis which earned him his doctorate was on the theme of the changing pattern

of the world trade. While at Stirling, he joined the Communist Party for a couple of years - ''I used to believe in Communism and I used to believe in Santa Claus'' - and gained a reputation as a student radical.

''I've always been interested in theory and analysis,'' he says, almost wistfuly. As a member of Neil Kinnock's ''kitchen cabinet'' from 1983-85, he was a leading architect of moves to smash the grip of the far-left on the party and to reform radically trade union affiliation and the undemocratic block-vote influence of the TUC barons.

''The starting point is to study the real world as it is today, not as it was 50 years ago or 150 years ago, when Adam Smith or Marx or whoever was around. But to use that intellectual capacity that we've got to study society as it is today and from that to draw conclusions about how best to apply your values in today's circumstances. I think that is both the essence of New Labour and also the essence of what was very traditional.'' Reid was elected as MP for Motherwell North in 1987 with the biggest Labour majority in Scotland. Boundary changes mean he now represents Hamilton North and Belshill. As Armed Forces Minister he had to justify the ban on gays in the military without appearing homophobic and had to be open about the research into Gulf War Syndrome while avoiding huge compensation claims. After being hand-picked as Transport Minister by Tony Blair, he later saw off a lorry drivers'

dispute over fuel price increases.

Liaising between Scotland and Westminster as Secretary of State for Scotland has proved more demanding than he could have anticipated. It has been a fraught past couple of years. How have you been coping since Cathie's death? He sighs. ''Anyone who loses their partner, I think, goes through an experience that cannot be described in any similar terms, because it is absolute. It is the absoluteness of death.

''Anything else that happens, you can repair that. It was damaged, it was an argument, let's make up, or whatever. But death is such an absolute, it affects everybody, irrespective of position, just the same.

''When it happens to the person you have been most intimately involved with all your life, it is not only absolute, but it is also very difficult. In that sense, there is something you have to experience rather than describe.''

He tells me that he never felt like giving up, but his wife's death reinforced a second aspect for him. Politicians, he says, ought to keep their own importance or lack of it in perspective. ''I was once asked what book I would recommend to any new person coming into politics and I said it was Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. It wasn't because I understood it all, but because of one fact I learned in the book. Up until that point I didn't realise there were a hundred million suns in our solar system and there are a hundred thousand million solar systems in the presently observable universe. I think it's good for politicians to remember that, because they are not that important.

''I felt that when John Smith died. I certainly felt that when Cathie died. This is not about the trappings of power, or the status, it's the human beings and, God, we're all made of the same stuff and we all go the same way. We just disappear on the great tide. So we can do certain things and we should apply our minds. But at the end of the day, never get too big an idea of how important you are.''

Despite the tumult of the last few years, Reid now cuts a confident figure, buoyed, no doubt, by his new relationship with Karine Adler, who is in her thirties. Were you surprised by the fact that it came along relatively quickly after the death of your wife? ''I was. And it surprised me, I suppose, who came along in that sense, because it's someone from an entirely different background and whose interests were entirely different.'' Frank Roy describes him as ''almost unrecognisable'' under the influence of Karine. ''She has been a bit of a cultural shock to John. In fact, Karine describes myself and John together as a cultural shock to her,'' says Roy. ''We took her to her first football game with my wife, a Celtic match. This was just another part of his life he wanted to introduce to Karine. She's been a massive influence. They work

well together. You know what they say about opposites attracting.''

Dr Reid met her at a barbecue party in London, attended by people from the film world (two years ago Adler made her mark as a movie director when her art house film, Under the Skin, knocked The Full Monty into second place to win the best independent film prize at the Edinburgh Festival).

''It's very useful to have a kindred spirit with whom you can talk, but whose interests and horizons extend far beyond yours. She does have an interest in what I do, but she has no agenda to push, or whatever.''

So what do you do now? ''Funnily enough,'' and he laughs, ''deep beneath this apparently sombre-suited gentleman is somebody who used to play in a band. I play rock'n'roll on the piano. I play folk music. All types of music.'' At school he was the lead singer in a rock band called The Graduates. The previous band he was in went on to become fairly well-known as The Poets. He tells me he's a singer, plays the guitar ''reasonably well'' and plays ''a bit of the mouthie''. He's a big fan of Woodie Guthrie and Tom Paxton. (Before Cathie died he played a session with Paxton back-stage at one of his concerts.)

''I like reading, particularly history. But Karine is more of a fiction fan. She's somebody who, in other cultural aspects, opera and ballet and art, is much better versed than I am. But I'm learning.'' Has she rejuvenated you? ''I don't know about rejuvenation,'' he laughs. I'm looking for a Viagra headline, I say. ''Yeah, I know . . . I think it has certainly extended my horizon. Politics is a means to an end. And the end is a better life. It's important to try to make sure that the mechanics of politics don't become your life. I've still got a Gibson acoustic. My youngest son Mark, he's got three guitars and we sometimes play at home together.''

Are we expecting any formal announcements in the New Year? ''Do you mean unemployment figures? Or Celtic? Or Turf Wars?''

He laughs. ''If I've got any announcements to make I'm sure that the Scottish press will the first to be told.'' If you are going to get married, or whatever, are you inviting Donald? ''Yeah, quite good . . .''

His father and mother, he says, have been great influences, and both of them remain the signpost to memory lane of Old Labour. His mother is 81. His biggest critic and biggest fan. He phones her every day. He phones his sons every day. And he phones Karine, ''obviously'', every day that he doesn't see her. His mother is over aggressive in defending him and he has to tell her not to phone the newspapers to complain about their coverage of him.

''When my father died about 12 years ago, my mother . . .'' He stops. His eyes well up. ''Solidarity is writ large. But she is prepared to tell you if she thinks you've got it wrong.'' But old Labour, while crucially important to his make-up, is a mindset that he has all but abandoned in a rush to modernise.

He cites Winston Churchill as someone he most admires in politics. ''It's an unusual one for a socialist, except if you understand Churchill's life. He was extremely radical. He was also a maverick. He wasn't frightened

by political correctness at the time. He occasionally tippled a little.'' He raises his eyebrows. ''Don't draw any conclusions

from that.''

When he went to the Ministry of Defence and took over as Armed Forces Minister from Churchill's grandson, Sir Nicholas Soames, there was a portrait of an old admiral up behind the desk. When he inquired who he was, he was told the man had fought bravely and gone down against the Spanish. ''I said, 'you mean he was f***ing beat'. And they said 'Yes'. I said take it down and put Churchill up.''

He concedes that he is not the most diplomatic person in the world. ''My lack of subtlety on a number of occasions is a trait that I should work hard to overcome.''

He's even enjoying the difficult times that his position throws up at him. ''It will sound like a cliche because we are greatly privileged and we are living in the middle of history. You never recognise, when you are going through a revolutionary period, that it's a revolution. My favourite quotation is Hegel's 'The owl of Minerva spreads her wings only at the coming of the dusk'. Which means it's only at the end of the day that wisdom actually takes flight.''

He walks me down the grand, columned entrance-way to Dover House, the last remnants of a cigarette end tucked inside his hands. We survey the scene. ''Not bad for an old commie,'' I say. He pauses. ''Aye, not bad

at all.''