Alex Salmond really does know how to make an entrance. We had been waiting for him for 35 minutes in front of Asda Living at the Glasgow Fort shopping centre.

Suddenly I saw a burgundy car heading towards us blaring: “This is Alex Salmond, of the SNP!” Is it Alex Salmond, the talking car? I peered inside. No Alex.

Where was he? We stared down the way, towards the cut-price sofa shop, and saw a familiar round form. He had disembarked early and the result, which I'm sure was not lost on him, was that we had to run to him.

He was with two actors: James Cosmo, who was in Braveheart, and Elaine C. Smith, who played Mary in Rab C. Nesbitt.

There were also ten SNP people with balloons and flags and, oh yes, in there somewhere was the candidate, John Something-or-Other.

Alex processed (there is no other word) along the pavement. Music blared out of the centre. By chance it was the Pretenders. “'Cause I gonna make you see, there's nobody else here, no one like me,” they sang. “I'm special, so special! I gotta have some of your attention. Give it to me!”

And how he got it. His minders moved us over so photographers could get a clear shot. “My God, it's like Princess Diana!” gasped one chap, as he gazed at the wall of snappers. Well, not quite, but, on a grey day in Glasgow East, it felt a bit celeb-crazed.

The shoppers loved him. He hugged. He slapped backs. He squeezed arms. He chortled. Talk about acting. He put the others to shame. Do they give Oscars for Best Performance at a By-Election?

Well, I said to Alex, you are a bit of a star. He looked at me strangely. “I should hope so!” he cried. “I'm the First Minister of Scotland, woman!” I stammered something non-committal.

“I was called a saint yesterday!” he cried. A saint? Alex then chuckled in a way that I'm sure saints never do. My, but he's enjoying himself.

This was his tenth trip to Glasgow East and there is no doubt that the SNP is where the excitement is.

Earlier I had accompanied the Labour candidate, Margaret Curran, on a worthy but dull visit to an engineering company. I have seen mortuaries that were merrier.

Labour is taking no risks: there is no rumble of excitement around its campaign, only the purr of a political machine ticking over.

When asked about the whereabouts of Gordon Brown, a man who would evidently rather go to Baghdad than East Glasgow, Margaret answered elliptically, saying that the core of this campaign was the MP.

“That is the message,” she said. “I am the one who is going to be at Westminster.” She never did actually say his name.

This is a fierce battle — every lamppost is festooned with warring signs — between old and new Scotland.

The area may be poor, and you really can smell it, but its people have united in hatred at how it has been portrayed by snooty southerners.

If Labour wins — and it's thought that it will squeak through, for this is tribal — it will be grudging. “They have a face for every day of the week,” said one voter bitterly of Labour politicians.

Back at the shopping centre, Alex the Saint was playing the Devil, hammering away at all of Labour's mistakes. So is there going to be a political earthquake tomorrow?

“The ground is moving!” he announced. Over to one side, the actual candidate, John “Something-or-Other” Mason, watched in amazement.

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