Monthly Archives: May 2008

When you think you know someone

Posted on May 29, 2008 | Leave a comment

I am in shock and it’s all because of Mary Whitehouse. From the coverage of her life ahead of the drama about her on TV tonight, I have just learned that, as a young single woman, she had “a relationship” with a married man. Wow. I really didn’t know that. I think I am as shaken as she was when she saw a man’s bare bottom wiggling about in The Singing Detective.

Reading about her shortlived, but admitted, affair has put me quite droll. You think you know someone. Then you learn something that completely skews the picture you had of them. Normally, it doesn’t happen often, but these last few days I have had to revise my opinion of quite a few people.

Most of the women on Great Bernera, where I grew up, looked just like the late Mrs Whitehouse. Like a good wife in Tobson, she wore regulation garb, if somewhat light in colour for Bernera Free Church. However, she had the Sunday hat and kept going on about morality. What really flummoxed me was that she was English. At that time, I honestly thought only Gaelic speakers wore hats like that.

Now, shock, horror. She was seeing a married man of 36 when she was just 20. It was in the papers before, but I must have missed it. While she later claimed nothing physical happened, nevertheless it does seem to indicate that she was, how shall I put this delicately, quite the wee raver herself at one time. She must have . . . OK, I’ll stop there.

Any programme aimed at under-35s had to have prompted complaints from her National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association to be cool. Shows like Play For Today and, of course, Till Death Us Do Part went out of their way to wind her up. In Till Death, Alf Garnett, a barroom sage and philosopher who regularly referred to his equally-grumpy missus as a silly old moo, leafed cheekily through Mrs Whitehouse’s book.

Take heed, ye who are Gaelic programme makers. Your shows cannot ever achieve the possible viewing figures until they make grittier programmes in which the players use language and encounter situations closer to the real life of the common five-eights. Ordinary people swear like troopers – troopers with their bits caught in their zips. Our, ahem, expressiveness is a fact of life.

Any drama, for instance, that would claim to be realistic would have to include such dialogue. Even Gaelic documentaries, well after the watershed, of course, should not skip all the fruitier parlance of the stressed crofter, fisherman or wind turbine erector. Otherwise, it will be boring. I am not advocating end-to-end profanity, unless you are depicting the closed-doors sessions of the Stornoway councillors, in which case, yes, you would have to be realistic there, too.

At the moment, showing a programme for Gaels after the watershed merely seems to be an excuse to show a pensioner sitting by a table lamp talking about the old days. Fine when Mary Whitehouse was a girl, but Gaelic production values have to mature. Of course, the new digital channel will put all that right and have the budgets for quality programmes. Won’t it, darlings?

Someone else I thought I knew was Sir Terence of Wogan. Hitherto, he has been the sceptically-muttering host of an annual festival of nonsense called the Eurovision Song Contest, which I have loved since Sandie Shaw showed us her verrucas in the 60s. We all chortled when Norway always got “nil pwah”. Now he throws a wobbly when we do, too.

Who cares whether the eastern bloc countries put serious analysis of the offerings to one side and are just voting for each other? It is not a serious show, but frothy nonsense which is about as camp as the Royal National Mod. Almost, but not quite.

Someone else I thought I knew has changed my perception of himself most of all. Let’s call him Paul. He is a thirtysomething island entrepreneur, at least that’s what he calls himself. In truth, he is a jack-of-all-trades who can do or fix anything – or knows someone who can.

Two weeks ago, he was a devil-may-care jack-the-lad with few responsibilities. Now, he has been transformed almost overnight. He and his partner now have a baby. Aww. From dude to new man in one easy step. Paul now sports a new badge of honour – vomit on his collar. He has transmogrified into a doting dada. He’s even going coochie-coo and everything. Unbelievable.

So to Paul and Elizabeth, congratulations. And to baby Shannon, goo-goo, ga-ga. I saw a great bib for a cool babe the other day. Your dada should buy it for you. It said: “Spit happens.”

Published in the Press and Journal on May 28, 2008

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Posted in religion, TV, Western Isles

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Why ex-fly guy did Rockall fly-by

Posted on May 21, 2008 | Leave a comment

So I was banned from going on last week’s yacht expedition to Rockall for safety reasons, which really means my missus decided it was not as safe as staying at home. They’re logical, women. I was not going at all at all, she snapped before roaring off in first gear all the way to the Co-op. When she’s wound up, she forgets the car has a clutch.

Then, out of the blue, my former colleagues at RAF Kinloss offered to take me in a Nimrod. Whoosh. Missing you already, honey pie.

After a jolly feast of boiled ham and healthy, vegetabley things in the sergeants’ mess, me and my belly were stuffed into a flying suit and Flight Lieutenant Dan Gray and his 120 Squadron crew whisked me up into the wide blue yonder. From my perch on the flight deck, the glorious sight ahead and below as the Mighty Hunter turned slowly westwards over the Moray Firth was jaw-dropping.

Nimrod in the Atlantic

That view from 20,000ft of a golden globe hanging low over mist-shrouded Highland hills and glens stretching as far as the eye could see was awe-inspiring. This must be how heaven is, I pondered. As it dawned on me that I was probably closer to that elevated place than most, I shuddered – then I had that rare “I’m really glad to be alive today and up here” feeling.

It seemed only a few minutes before we were 200 miles out. Someone on a radar console, or whatever the hi-tech gubbins is called, said we were approaching either a “very slow vessel or a rock”. Can they really see a CalMac ferry from out here? I wondered. But it was the ollack. Seeing the Saltire flapping on top of the blasted crag signalled that at least one of the hardy lads from the yacht Elinca had made it on.

Aignish crewman Innes Smith got the flag of Ecosse, and one made of Harris Tweed, on to the rock. Ian Stephen, a poet and sailor, pitched it on the rock’s summit before marking the moment with a just-penned poem. In fact, six of the 11 guys jumped into the briney and got on.

Like a scrumptious Christmas pud topped with soft icing, Rockall really looks good enough to eat; a confection in a brown kelp dish on a deep blue tablecloth, its hems hanging down over the far horizon. But this rock cake is not for eating. Not unless you fancy a mouthful of hard lava gaily decorated with several months’ encrustation of guillemot poo.

Photos taken, the Nimrod engines roared like a woman driver in first gear and we shot into the clear blue void for manouevres with secret vessels in secret places as I retched secretly into a paper bag. But thank you, CXX Squadron, you looked after me brilliantly.

Earlier in the day, I went into Forres, down the road from the Kinloss base. Ah, the memories from nearly 30 years ago. Streets like Drumduan Road and Milne’s Wynd; hotels like the Carisbrooke and the Ramnee. Servicemen know the Red Lion pub. Down Tolpuddle Street off the main drag, we were virtual martyrs to its charms.

You wouldn’t know this gem of an oasis was there if you didn’t know it was there. Chief pint-puller and head chucker-out these days is Robbie Sutherland, who rattled off the names of Stornoway people, like Angus Maclean and Jai, whom he knew working in the North Sea.

When I told Robbie I was in air-traffic control all these years ago, nearby ears pricked up. David Livingstone had worked in GRF, the ground radio flight, just downstairs from where I was in the control tower. Although I struggled to place the face, that didn’t stop me greeting him with “Ah, David Livingstone, I presume.” Despite my predictability, he put his hand in his pocket. A fine fellow. “Only a wee one, thanks. I am off flying soon, chaps,” I said, vainly trying to impress.

On my last night in there before being posted south in 1979, I ran out of money. Couldn’t buy any more farewell pints. A helpful barman, Davie as I recall, took pity and bought me a half-quart. Which is why, as I was in the area, I popped in to see if anybody knew where he was. I wanted to pay him back, you see. A Lewisman always gets his round in.

Davie Watson, it turns out, still works in the Red Beastie. He really does. But, dash it, I missed him. He wasn’t on duty. Robbie told me he came in every day and asked if a guy from Stornoway had been in. Never mind, Davie, I’ll be back to make sure you get your pint – sometime in the next 29 years.

As published in the Press and Journal on May 21, 2008

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Hiding the Lego in the Western Isles

Posted on May 21, 2008 | Leave a comment

Parents are absolutely free to withdraw their children from sports events on a Sunday if they wish. That is their absolute right. However, for the islands’ MSP to try and get the date of the sports changed to accommodate them is bizarre, undemocratic and may even be unbiblical.

Why should the organisers bother to change it? It is not as if Alasdair Allan, and all the other politicians who see a bandwagon here on which to jump, is standing up for the rights of everyone in the islands. Is he? There are Muslims in the islands who have lived here all or most of their lives. Are our politicians asking that their holy day of Friday is observed and all ferries cancelled? If not, why not?

We now have Jews here in the islands so should not CalMac ferries also be tied up on their God-ordained holy day of Saturday as well? Let us show them the respect demanded of everyone by our own home-grown Sabbatarians striving to protect a day that is set out by man, not God. If we do not demonstrate such respect for others, is it not just mob rule? Forget them, there are more of us up here. So what we say goes. Show me where it says that in the bible. What you will find is parables calling for the complete opposite.

This story has had some interesting people scratching their heads about Western Isles’ attitudes. Particularly interesting are the comments on the Cranmer blog at archbishop-cranmer.blogspot.com. Like this piece: “These are young children who have worked hard to reach the finals, and it seems somewhat mean-spirited to assert a legalistic observance of a Sabbath which, after all, only transmuted to a Sunday after the conversion of the Emperor Constantine when worship of the Son supplanted that of the sun.
“In any case, the Sabbath stipulations were concerned with labour: one can hardly equate playing football with labour, since none of these children earn their living by it, and if children are not permitted to play on the Sabbath, one had better hide the Lego.”

If you agree that sport is not labour in the biblical sense, the political sense or the legal sense, and that others who do Sunday work like ferry crews and airline staff are free to do that if they wish, you may wonder how biblical it is for anyone to stop these kids from taking part. Parents have the right, of course, but are they being Christian?

A revered old churchman said that it was unfortunate that most Christians read their bible thinking they already know what’s in it. How many people actually read the Good Book with an open mind?

Still, we have done it this way all our lives and by our parents before us so why should we change our ways now? Which is what that Burmese government guy said the other day. I’m not drawing any comparisons with that awful tragedy and islands’ Sabbath observance just with the pig-headedness of the egomaniacs who would govern us and their grim determination to keep their respective peoples firmly in their places.

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Posted in ferries, religion, Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

Poetry and tweed on Rockall

Posted on May 19, 2008 | 2 Comments

Surface photos: Martyn Simpson

Aerial photos: 120 Sqn, RAF Kinloss

Three men from the Western Isles were among six adventurers who managed to get onto Rockall and raise the Scottish flag. Despite glorious sunny weather, sea conditions were difficult and cold and they had to swim to the rock from a dinghy because of the swell and turbulence – but only had one wetsuit among them. The six landed on Rockall individually and then swam back to give the suit to the next man.

120 Sqn, RAF Kinloss

The Nimrod photographs the Elinca at Rockall

However, Andy Strangeway, the Yorkshire-based expedition leader who is already in the record books for sleeping on 162 Scottish islands, was unable to land because he was concerned he was not a strong enough swimmer. They were in the expedition of 11 men on the 67ft steel-built former BT Challenge yacht Elinca which left for Rockall, 230 miles west of the Hebrides last week.

Skipper Angus Smith, who owns the Elinca, explained that faced with a 15ft swell, there was no alternative but to approach the rocky crag in a dinghy and then swim the last 10 or 15 metres. First to swim onto the rock was Mark Lumsden, 38, a surfing holiday operator and film producer who is based on Lewis. He was swept on by a wave and then clung onto kelp and hauled himself up before the next wave. He was one of only three to make it to the very top of Rockall.

When skipper’s son Innes Smith, 21, the full-time yacht crewman, went on he got to the top and not only unfurled a Scottish saltire but also a flag made of Harris Tweed which is woven in the Western Isles. Fellow Lewisman and former coastguard Ian Stephen, 52, a poet and sailor from Stornoway, also made it to the top and he pitched the Saltire on Rockall where it was seen and photographed by a Nimrod reconnaissance plane from RAF Kinloss which was training in the area.

Innes Smith tries to reach the rock

Innes tries to land on the rock

The landings took place on Wednesday but problems with satellite communications meant that it was not known who had made it onto the rock until the yacht arrived back at Leverburgh on Harris on Sunday. Ian Stephen also wrote and read a poem, Rockall live, he had written specially, before making his descent. He said: “The patter on the boat was fantastic – very sharp. I was challenged by the other lads to write and read a poem so I just had to do it.”

Meanwhile, Andy Strangeway, 42, from Full Sutton in Yorkshire, said: “Yes, I am disappointed. But we have learned a lot from this trip and we will be trying again. I hope to make another trip in this yacht in August and I am looking for adventurers who want to come along.”

Charles Veley, 42, who flew in from San Francisco holds the title of the world’s most travelled man. He was one of three who got onto Rockall but not to the top. It was second time lucky for Veley who also tried to land there in 2005 with TV personality Ben Fogle but a severe swell meant they could only touch the rock so they left Post-it notes to say they had been there.

Innes Smith with saltire

Innes makes the saltire flutter over Rockall

The others who managed to make it on were Martyn Simpson, 28, an oil industry worker from Peterhead who was at Rockall on the fishing boat his father was a crewman on when he was younger and David Langan, a Dublin-based furniture store boss. Before they set off, Langan, 47, claimed to be on a fact-finding mission to open an Irish-themed pub on the rock.

The tip of a dead volcano, Rockall is about 83ft wide at average sea level. It is 72ft in height and is sheer on one side. It is regularly washed over by large winter waves. About 13ft from the summit, there is a small ledge of 11ft by 4ft, which is known as Hall’s Ledge.

Radio amateur and emergency doctor Mike McGirr, 60, flew in from Chicago and had his hopes of broadcasting from the rock dashed by the swell. Others on the yacht who did not get onto the rock were Bob Dixon-Carter, 60, a Yorkshire-based retired tanker captain originally from South Africa, who was intrigued by the rock as he sailed past it and Tony Smith, 68, from Somerset who worked on St Kilda in 1966.

The Elinca stopped at St Kilda and one member of the expedition, Martyn Simpson, even managed to get a shower and refreshments – much to the envy of his shipmates. The swell has prevented many attempted landings on Rockall. Until the landing on Wednesday, the same number of people had officially been recorded to have walked on the moon as had landed on Rockall since recording began in 1810. Some of them were soldiers dropped by helicopter and are often discounted by adventurers.

Martyn Simpson makes it onto the rock

Mark Lumsden, who has already produced and released a surfing film, captured the Rockall expedition on video and talks are in progress for a DVD to be produced for commercial sale.

Andy Strangeway, meanwhile, said that while he was disappointed, it was not the end of the story and he would be trying again soon. A further expedition is planned for August.

Rockall live by Ian Stephen

When is a pimple a pinnacle
When there’s kittiwake guano
Icing on the bun that
Could have been baked by the mate’s mother.

There’s an island called Sugarloaf
Out of this hemisphere but
The sea doesn’t know
Our dividing lines.

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Posted in Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

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Crisis? What midlife crisis?

Posted on May 16, 2008 | Leave a comment

A TRIP to the big city last week opened my eyes to the possibility that either I am losing it big style or I may just be having the time of my life. Scurrying out of Glasgow Airport, my exit was blocked by a pouting blonde. With immaculate hair, skin, eyes, lips, neck and everything else down from there, this perma-tanned, leggy lovely wanted to interest me in a credit card which would give me 0% on balance transfers for, oh, yonks and yonks.

Twittering on about secure shopping, APRs and card protection, she mentioned something about her late husband. Late husband? Oh no, I thought. Poor thing, on her own. Struggling to feed her skinny brats, she parades bravely round each painful day in a blue suit pushing unwanted cards just to pay her bills. Behind those perfect, rounded lips and the sparkling teeth was a poor, hardworking mother with a shattered heart, I decided.

For some reason, I asked if I could withdraw cash worldwide. Not that I expect to get much farther than the sun-soaked resort of Sauchiehall for the autumnal sojourn to BHS, M&S and so on. That is when the Buying of the Pants takes place. I stand there, at the top of an escalator, dreaming of cold lager, while Herself tuts loudly about how much Y-fronts (XL) have gone up since we did this last year.Sauchiehall Street

Perma-tan Girl was giving me the spiel. Yes, I could use this fantastic card in Utah, Ulan Bator or even Ullapool. In fact, as I fantasised at all these exotic places – Ullapool is actually quite nice for three days each August – she said that she and her fiance used that same card during a lovefest in Hawaii only weeks before.

Fiance, no less. She has a rich fancy man already. Huh. And there was me thinking she deserved my sympathy. I was all set to sign up for a credit card I did not want to help someone who didn’t need my help. I don’t usually fall for the patter of these slick salespeople who are all teeth and big smiles – except, maybe, for Stewart in the Lewis Crofters. It’s not that long since I went into that emporium for a packet of nails and came out with a shedload – literally. He flogged me a shed. Still, having two sheds is OK; it gives me a choice of places in which to sulk.

So how do you know you are having a midlife crisis? I’ve read about that sort of thing in the magazines that Ken Macdonald leaves lying about in the Bayhead Dental Clinic for men who know nothing about that sort of thing. I must have secretly wanted to run away with Perma-tan and have her babies. It was a secret, all right; I hadn’t actually realised it myself.

It’s all about hormones and trying new things, those magazines say. Offered a berth on this week’s yacht expedition to Rockall, I said yes. Then came to me a vision of a magnificent mermaid brushing her silky locks, perched atop the rock beckoning me slowly, slowly, slowly. It was the exciting combination of that lingering smile, like Sally Magnusson’s at the end of Reporting Scotland, and that long, silver, glistening tail – like an ungutted haddock on Ronnie Scott’s slab. Wow.

Unfortunately, I confided about my mounting anticipation to Herself. Now I am not allowed to go. I haven’t worked out what she thinks could happen. Last week, she was nipping me about the extending list of jobs she wants done. I need to be nagged, otherwise nothing gets done. I don’t tell her that, obviously. I merely responded that her constant nagging was such that if her older sister, Joey, a remarkably well-preserved bun-vendor over Plasterfield way, was in the market for a toyboy, I would consider helping her out. Well, you have to say something to keep their interest. It certainly stopped Herself in mid-nag, though.

On Saturday afternoon, Josephine popped in for afternoon tea. Then Herself announced, between mouthfuls of cream crackers, that I had expressed an earnest desire to be her big sister’s little plaything. The more-experienced woman batted not one eyelid. Her portals were henceforth open unto me, she declared, as I writhed in crimson embarrassment.

She imposed only one condition for taking me off her wee sister’s hands: I have to get rid of my wee tickler. No, not that. My goatee. Small price to pay, I thought. Now where’s that razor? If the womenfolk are not exactly fighting over me yet, I have a feeling it won’t be long till that happens. I think I could get used to this midlife crisis. It’s going very well so far.

As published in the Press and Journal on May 14, 2008

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Expedition sets off for Rockall

Posted on May 12, 2008 | 4 Comments

An expedition to Rockall has set off from the Western Isles with an Irish businessman on board who claims to be planning to build a pub on the rock.

The 11 men are on the 67ft steel-built former BT Challenge yacht Elinca. The expedition is led by Yorkshire decorator Andy Strangeway who is already in the record books for sleeping on 162 significant Scottish islands in the last four years.

The expedition, for which participants have paid up to £1,800 for a berth, hopes to enter the record books by having more members on the rock and being the first to swim and kayak around the rock, which is 230 miles west of the Outer Hebrides.

Strangeway, 42, from Full Sutton, said: “Having slept on so many inshore islands, this is a big challenge for me. I want to sleep on Rockall. We are on the only Scottish yacht that is licensed by the Coastguard to go absolutely anywhere because of its comprehensive facilities and kit. The main challenge is usually the weather but it is looking good.”

Those on board include Charles Veley, 42, who flew in from San Francisco and holds the title of the world’s most travelled man.Skipper Angus Smith, Andy Strangeway, Innes Smith, David Langan, Martin Simpson, Bob Dixon-Carter, Tony Smith, Mike McGirr, Charles Veley on the Elinca before sailing from Leverburgh on the Isle of Harris for Rockall.

Skipper Angus Smith, Andy Strangeway, Innes Smith, David Langan, Martin Simpson, Bob Dixon-Carter, Tony Smith, Mike McGirr and Charles Veley on the Elinca before sailing from Leverburgh on the Isle of Harris for Rockall. Mark Lumsden and Ian Stephen are not in this photo.

The tip of a dead volcano, Rockall is about 83ft wide at average sea level. It is 72ft in height and is sheer on one side. It is regularly washed over by large winter waves. About 13ft from the summit, there is a small ledge of 11ft by 4ft, which is known as Hall’s Ledge.

Before they set off, Dublin-based furniture stores boss David Langan, 47, claimed to be on a fact-finding mission before he opens an Irish-themed pub on the rock.

The managing director of a group with stores in Dublin, Sligo, Navan and Kilkenny, he said: “We all know who it really belongs to but I could not find it on my map. So I am going to check out exactly where Rockall is so I can build my pub on it. That will draw people. Before I finish, that island will be rocking and rolling.”

Radio amateur and emergency doctor Mike McGirr, 60, flew in from Chicago and hopes to set up a broadcast station and talk with other amateurs worldwide from the rock for several hours if they can land on Wednesday. He hopes to beat the two-hour record set by another ham on a previous landing.

Rockall on a very good day

Others on the yacht include Bob Dixon-Carter, 60, a retired tanker captain originally from South Africa, who was intrigued by the rock as he sailed past it, Peterhead oil industry worker Martin Simpson, 28, who was at the rock when he was a fisherman, Tony Smith, 68, from Somerset who worked on St Kilda in 1966, and Mark Lumsden, 38, a cameraman and surf holiday operator from Berwick-upon-Tweed who now lives in Stornoway.

Mark said: “If conditions are not good enough to land, they may be good enough to surf. So I am taking my surfboard with me, just in case.”

Also on the Elinca is former Stornoway coastguard, now sailor and writer, Ian Stephen, 52. In his previous job, Ian helped co-ordinate countless rescues in the Rockall area but had never before got to see it for himself.

Veley also tried to land there in 2005 with TV personality Ben Fogle but a severe swell meant they could only touch the rock so they left Post-it notes to say they had been there.

The voyage will include stop-offs at Village Bay on St Kilda which should bring back memories for Tony Smith, who was roofing the first renovated cottage on the island as he listened on radio to Geoff Hurst’s triumph for England in the July 30, 1966 World Cup final against West Germany.

Yacht skipper Angus Smith, from Aignish on Lewis, is the owner of the Elinca and his son Innes, 23, is a crewman. Angus said: “The forecast for Rockall could not be better for a landing on Wednesday. I am really very hopeful we will get that photo with everyone on the rock.”

Elinca glides into Leverburgh

However, successful landings are so rare due to that lethal swell even in good weather, only the same number of people officially recorded to have walked on the moon are recorded as having landed on Rockall since recording began in 1810. Twelve American astronauts set foot on the moon and 12, including soldiers dropped by helicopter who are often discounted by committed adventurers, are officially recorded as having landed on Rockall. The longest stay was by Scottish adventurer Tom McClean, from Morar, who stayed on for about 40 days in 1985.

Several ships have sunk by hitting Rockall or were lost close to it. These included, in June 1904, the steamer SS Norge while heading for New York. It is thought 635 of the 795 emigrants and crew were lost.

If the trip proves to be a success, Andy Strangeway is hoping to lead at least two further expeditions to the rock in the coming few months.

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TV highlight of the year

Posted on May 8, 2008 | Leave a comment
A Hebridean churchman trying to put the former manager of the Sex Pistols on the straight and narrow was, for me, one of the TV highlights of the year. There on The Baron, the TV show that the good folk of Gardenstown in Banffshire are trying hard to forget, was cool-as-a-refrigerated-cucumber Reverend Donald Martin from the west and windy side of Lewis trying to prick the conscience of renowned rent-a-gob Malcolm McLaren.

The producers’ format was simple. Take three personalities; one well-known TV celeb, another who is controversial and potty-mouthed, and a little-known songstress. Mix them up with the church-going villagers. Stand back. It was all for a local title, the Baron of Troup, for the celeb who got the most villagers’ votes.

The late Mike Reid, sometime gravel-voiced Frank Butcher in EastEnders, was well-known. And polite. Well-mannered Suzanne Shaw was in international music sensations Hear’Say (okay, so I exaggerate), sadly now defunct. And Malcolm McLaren was the best-known malcontent until a Wimbledon umpire thought American loudmouth John McEnroe’s balls were out of play.

I phoned Reverend Donald, as Mister Malcolm called him. I wanted the inside track on how he actually got on with McLaren, who managed a notable punk combo in the 1970s. They were pretty unforgettable. The Sex Pistols were also pretty unmusical.

Martin, a Church of Scotland preacher, is committed and courteous, so unlike the parcel of raucous rogues who nowadays inhabit Shader, Barvas. But he had better things to do than bandy words with a hack, even a Lewis one, sniffing about for a scoop. He hadn’t even seen last week’s programme.

So was McLaren really outrageous all the time? I inquired. The rev seemed to indicate not. What? Are you really suggesting that the time-warped prancer only turned into a chump when the cameras were on? Goodbye Bernera man, said the man of the cloth. It was Saturday afternoon, after all, so there would have been sermons to draft, rewrite, tear up then start again. I understood. I do that with this column every Tuesday.

Other Gardenstownies were more forthcoming. “I was black affronted,” said one lady, darkly. Outrage was too mild a word, claimed another woman. You cannot describe their fury about McLaren without resorting to Anglo Saxon terms. “That’s another thing. There are far too many swear words in the TV programme,” said yet another unhappy shop worker.

Despite his incessant mouthiness, his unerring oddness, and his supposed fondness for chaos, anarchy and unconventionality, McLaren was briefly in the running to be Mayor of London in 1999. He promised a free bike to every household in the capital. He could have blocked the rise of Buffoon Boris. Too high a price, maybe. Whether you hail from Gardenstown or Shader, you can catch the last part of The Baron tomorrow night. I promised not to reveal who won. But it may not have been McLaren.

I had a chat with Andy Strangeway the other day. He’s the Yorkshireman who slept on 162 islands around Scotland in four years. Next week he is going for the biggie. On Lewis mariner Angus Smith’s 67ft sleek racing yacht, the Elinca, Andy is taking an expedition to Rockall. He is determined not only to clamber up the sheer rockface but may even kip down on a small ledge for a while. Although not more than 40 hectares, like his other conquests, Rockall is the ultimate heart thumper. The swell is sudden, mighty and lethal. More people were on the moon than are recorded to have set foot on it. No pressure then, Andrew.

For the next reality TV show, Angus could take McLaren to Rockall. Shove him on the ledge, give him a wind-powered satellite TV camera, a fishing rod and, to keep him going until he catches something, a sausage. And then just leave him there. Bet they would prefer to watch that in Gardenstown.

* My comments last week were taken by some to mean that I had taken to glorifying the Japanese nation. All I said was that it was an honour that the Japanese are so impressed by Scotch Whisky that they make their own. I mentioned their marketing because, I said, they can sell Yoichi for £150 a bottle. Apparently, it is the 20-year-old which is that price whereas the 10-year-old Yoichi Single Cask can be acquired for a more reasonable £30.

But no, I don’t believe that the entire Scottish industry is on the skids or that our drams should be reduced to merely an accompaniment to small portions of raw fish. At least not until I get to judge the Yoichi 10 and 20-year-old malts for myself. (Tokyo newspapers please copy).

As published in the Press and Journal on May 7, 2008

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GI made the island alehouse rock

Posted on May 1, 2008 | Leave a comment

SOON after Elvis Presley took off from his Prestwick stopover in 1960, a mechanical problem forced an American plane to land in Stornoway. The grease monkeys said it would take 24 hours to fix, so they were stuck for the night. A GI unpacked his brown suede shoes and headed into town with his pals for a night of song and dance in the Mac’s Imperial Bar. Not a lot of people know that.

Just like we didn’t know that he had also been in London two years before. A 1950s pop idol kept quiet about their day sightseeing in the capital. Why, more than 30 years after the guy’s death, did he still keep shtum? Did no one else see Elvis? Does Tommy Steele have another book coming out?

For 48 years, Scots have been able to claim a real and unique connection with the late King of Rock ’n’ Roll. That link with Ayrshire really bugs our partners in the union. So, as a jolly wheeze to also boost the career of a seventysomething warbler, he is wheeled out to stake a bizarre claim to playing host to Elvis that’s so much better than Scotland’s by, oh, hours.

It’s just typical. When Scotland has a rare achievement to its credit, you can be sure someone from the land of the Sassennach will try to go one better. Elvis touched down at Prestwick nearly 20 years before I was stationed there. Even then, it was a thing that really rankled with my colleagues from southern Britain.

Cockneys, particularly, would nip and pick because they are conditioned from birth to think nothing interesting happens two miles outwith Piccadilly Circus. Tommy Steele? The name rings a bell. I remember him. Probably his most famous song was from the 1959 film Tommy the Toreador. Now what was it called again? Ah, yes. Little White Bull. Enough said.

Meanwhile, some Scots are blubbing into their drams after hearing that two Japanese Scotch-style whiskies have been voted the world’s best. Yoichi has become the first single malt made outside Scotland to win the prestigious award after a blind tasting.

It beat last year’s winner, Skye’s own Talisker 18-year-old. And Suntory Hibiki won the drams’ industry award for the world’s best blended whisky. Yoichi is a coastal town of 22,000 people with a nice beach, in the north island of Hokkaido. Popular with holidaymakers during the hotter months of July and August, it also attracts surfers. Just like Thurso. And Barvas.

Here, on the interesting side of the Minch, we do not make whisky, of course. We don’t dare; there would be none left to sell to anyone else. A few of our more enterprising and anonymous islanders once mixed up bathloads of oatmeal with yeast in a remote sheiling way out on the Achmore moor. Bottles of the thrice-pulled distillate were thrust into pockets in return for a donation to charity. Allegedly. It was all a long time ago and my oesophagus has now healed nicely.

Like student lawyers and doctors, and everyone over 40 at every Royal National Mod, the Japanese take whisky making and tasting incredibly seriously. Many are said to be more knowledgeable than whisky reps. Downtown Tokyo has shot bars with arrays of fine drams that would shame your average Scottish lounge bar. As in Scotland, the whisky connoisseurs take up golf so they can relax in their clubhouse and spout complete balderdash about their abilities in both pastimes.

Distilleries up in Tomatin and down in Islay are Japanese-owned. It is actually nothing if not an honour for us that they are so impressed and inspired by Scotch whisky that they want to make their own. And they’ve got the marketing better than us. Yoichi costs £150 a bottle. The judges’ tasting notes say it has an “explosive aroma” and an “amazing mix of big smoke and sweet blackcurrant”. Amazing. Exactly like the stuff the boys made in the bath in the old sheiling. Allegedly.

Back in 1960, the dark-haired GI sang and danced and had the Mac’s jumping. An ageing good-time girl from Manor Park tells me he sang tenderly to a Caley Hotel chambermaid. She was completely unimpressed. She soon stomped off along Bayhead to tell her mother that the hunk of burning love had ridiculed her by muttering Are You Loathsome Tonight?

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