WAY back in the first summer of Covid a man stood next to the war memorial in Glasgow’s George Square and described a violent battle he claimed was under way.

American marines, he told a bedraggled crowd, were secretly engaging an enemy he could never quite name. There had, he explained, just been a tremendous firefight between soldiers and “them” in a bunker under the streets of Frankfurt.

The “they”, he said, had computers which controlled the world’s election. But “they” were about to get a reckoning: something big was about to happen, the speaker insisted. Donald Trump – then still president – was on the case.

This story of mystery – and entirely invented – baddies hiding under Germany’s financial capital was recounted at what, in theory, was an anti-lockdown protest.

In reality, it was an open-mike for Scotland’s very small army of cranks, fabulists and, well, straight-up wackadoodles.

I spent a bit of time in those strange Covid days watching these little rallies and chatting to protestors, who were mostly perfectly nice.

As we emerge from the pandemic, it is easy to forget how a few folk become distressed, disorientated and even disengaged from reality during the lockdown.

The pandemic definitely boosted conspiracism – but it also helped counter it.

Tackling make-believe about vaccines, or masks or lockdowns became a public-health priority, which required a public-health style response.

The BBC, for example, produced excellent material on how to deal with a friend or loved-one who had fallen under the spell of internet misinformation. The focus was very much on how to hold their hand and slowly walk them out of their delusions.

Victims of conspiracy theories often see themselves as seekers of the truth, as people of independent mind who do their own research.

Their friends and family were therefore urged to encourage such inquiries, but nudge people towards reality-based sources of information.

This was a sensible approach. It can be very hard to challenge an irrational belief once it takes hold. But it can be done, if not always.

During peak Covid, getting jags in arms, and masks over faces, was far more important than winning arguments or humiliating online fools.

The tactics worked.

Scotland and the UK recorded high levels of vaccination and (at least outside Downing Street) Covid rules compliance.

Of course, even before the disease came, the world had already been deluged by wave after wave of internet-era misinformation and “disinformation”, a new word we had to borrow from Russian to make sense of covert campaigns to mislead us.

Some of us completely lost it during those difficult months stuck at home. Some of us, of course, never had “it” in the first place.

There was one fella I came across at an anti-lockdown rally who genuinely believed in the classic old conspiracy theory of a United Nations world government, complete with black helicopters straight out of the comic books. He thought reporters were part of the plot. I wish we were: I could have used the extra cash as a UN stooge hack.

The UN World Government guy was convinced Nicola Sturgeon took her instructions from, well, “them” again.

Now the First Minister is at the centre of even less plausible internet conspiracy theory.

There is an entire alternatively universe online in which Ms Sturgeon has had a long-standing same-sex relationship with an international dignitary.

This ended, according to anonymous online idiots, when she threw an iron at the woman in one of Edinburgh’s poshest hotels.

Twitter last month lit up with anonymous accounts tweeting about this alleged “Balmoral Incident”.

For a very few of the most vociferous opponents of the SNP leader, on either fringe of the constitutional question, this was a delicious bit of gossip.

Some of those pushing the lie were convinced that the news was about to break in to the mainstream. And sure enough the Balmoral Incident did make the news. But only as journalists revealed it was not true – as if most people needed to be told this.

Was this a disinformation event? It very much could have been. After all, somebody maliciously invented this myth to hurt Ms Sturgeon. Was this some dark arts political professional? Or just a keyboard warrior with a grudge? We just do not know, and probably never will.

Yet there is reason to feel positive about this episode. No politician, bonafide journalist or celebrity – as far as I can see – chose to amplify the Balmoral myth. Contrast this with the United States where there are public figures – and even members of Congress – who repeat elements of the QAnon child abuse conspiracy theory.

Ms Sturgeon’s opponents, of course, do not need myths to criticise her. They have plenty of legitimate grounds to attack both her record in government and her objective of independence.

I suspect many people did not really believe the lies about the first minister which they so gleefully shared online.

This was just a virtual boo. It’s like football fans yelling abuse at the referee. They do not really think he or she is a sex offender.

Others pushing this disinformation have been zombified by years mainlining online hyper-partisan bile. Some of them will need gently reprogrammed back to reality. That is a job for friends and family.

But what about the influencers who did most to broadcast this – or other – conspiracy theories? Will they face consequences? Should – or could – they be punished? Maybe.

Political parties, for starters, should now be adopting the same kind of policies for conspiracists that they already have for racists.

Employers already take a dim view of people who are abusive or prejudiced online. They should now be thinking about what they are going to do about disinformation actors.

Why? Well, would you want to work, in any capacity, with somebody who spread malicious make-believe? I wouldn’t.

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