Monthly Archives: October 2008

Shame of the Inverness broadcaster

I wish Sky News and other commentators would stop calling what Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand did on October 18 a prank.

A prank can be defined as a ludicrous or grotesque act done for fun and amusement. Their phone calls to Andrew Sachs were certainly ludicrous and grotesque but where is the fun and amusement in harassing an old man? It was an attack and the police should have acted.

Brand has gone, Ross is going to be tending his garden until January and the Controller of Radio 2, who did absolutely nothing about Sachs’s initial complaint, has also headed for the exit.

Now inquiries by the BBC and Ofcom will take weeks to decide what we all know already. Both presenters will be banned from the BBC for a couple of years and it must never happen again.

Russell Brand’s televised apology did not do it for me. Claiming he got caught up in the moment and that he respected Andrew Sachs, he adopted an apparently serious yet strangely hollow tone. Why, if it was indeed as he suggests just a moment of madness, did he a week after the offending broadcast chant a pathetic and unconvincing mantra including the word sorry but, spitefully, added that his original abusive attack and filthy lies were funny?

In his world, a moment of madness can maybe last a week? As an apology, his self-recorded grovelling which made no reference to his later claim that his attack on Sachs was funny did, I believe, tinge the gangly entertainer with hypocrisy. He seemed willing to say anything to save his own skin while unable to hide his own cruelty.

Now there is growing speculation that the contract with Hot Sauce, Jonathan Ross’s production company, will mean a huge payout from the BBC if his services are dispensed with. Has the BBC not put a clause in the contract ensuring the licence-payer is protected if the artist has to be got rid off for falling below acceptable standards? And if not, why not?

To fail to do that would be a monumental failure. If Hot Sauce would not have signed up to that, the public broadcaster should have walked away as the interests of the public would not be protected. That would also have left the unsavoury innuendo, the vitriolic personal attacks and the alleged humour unworthy of even schoolboys to the perhaps more-astute lawyers to be found in the private sector.

Jonathan Ross is going to fight to keep his job. Not having the decency to resign, it is obvious he feels he can turn it around. No chance. As he does not have enough honour to fall on his sword, the BBC has correctly suspended him. Twelve weeks is too long even though he will lose out by about £1.5 million in that time.

If Ross is reinstated on the same terms and rate, many licence fee payers will refuse to renew their TV licence and actively protest that decision. The country will make the Beeb see sense and Four Poofs and A Piano will be looking for another gig.

It is preposterous to think some people still want Brand and Ross to get off scot-free because Nic Philps, a wet-behind-the-ears producer, is said to have approved the offensive pre-recorded package and referred it up the chain of command. He is also claimed to have reported that Sachs only wanted it toned down which Philps then, apparently, failed to do.

The staff involvement is only a side issue. Did the gruesome twosome harrass Sachs or not? Did they do it while paid by the BBC to make a broadcastable programme? Did they use BBC facilities to perpetrate the attacks?

Philps, if he is found to have acted so wrongly, should be out the door with Radio 2 controller Lesley Douglas who firstly threatened to quit if any of her dear staff are axed, then just resigned anyway.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radioassets/photos/2007/9/28/29105_2.jpg

Apparatchik Rod Mackenzie from Inverness is the one on the left

Ms Douglas, you should take action on any complaint, if you get one. Just make sure you keep a tighter rein in your next job, again, if you get one.

The inevitable apologists have been wheeled out led by the trendy yoof wing of the corporation. Rod Mackenzie, the editor of Radio 1’s Newsbeat, is claiming most of their listeners reckon it is a storm in a teacup. What were they all asked? I thought the unemployed Asbo collectors that make up the main audience of that mind-numbing station cannot communicate with anything other than a grunt anyway.

If Rod Mackenzie, being an Inverness man who therefore should know better, is being used by BBC staff worried about losing their seat on the gravy train, he too should be heading back up the M1 motorway very soon if he has a conscience. They are always looking for people at Inverness hospital radio. It would be far more worthwile and he would sleep better at night.

Otherwise, the unthinking apparatchik could always let me have his own mobile phone number and the names and ages of his young female relations. I could then call him up one evening to make filthy suggestions about what I have done to them. See how you like it, Mackenzie.

I must go down to the sea again

A BIG shout-out today to Captain Andy McCrindle. Commander of the CalMac ferry Hebrides, he was the fellow at whose tender mercies I found myself on Saturday morning when he boldly decided to get me and many grateful others home from Skye.

You see, there was the small matter of a hurricane in the Minch.

Bing bong. Captain Andy first told us he was not taking us to stormbound Lochmaddy first but directly to Tarbert. Great, we’d be home quicker. Then that reassuring Ayrshire voice told us all that, as we could see, it was a bit fresh out there. On the way over, we could expect gale force 10 and occasionally violent storm force 11.

A bit fresh? The breeze you get climbing the hill between Tobson and Bosta is a bit fresh. My wife, after more than one wee Drambuie, gets a bit fresh. What we faced on Saturday was not fresh, it was the mother of all hooleys. Dry-mouthed and trembling, we passengers looked at each other pitifully as Captain Andy cheerily concluded that he hoped we would enjoy sailing with Caledonian MacBrayne.

You know that tightening in the nether regions you get as you go in to the dentist? You don’t get that? Ah well, neither do I, but if I did, I think it would be a bit like I felt then. I could hardly speak.

Putting down my book, Have Fun and Earn £££s – Become a Councillor, I got myself ready for hanging over the side. I was resigned to projectile vomiting of the smoked haddock, poached egg and grilled tomato served up by Bill and Wendy in the Uig Hotel.

But Handy Andy was at the helm. He made that ferry fly, literally at times. Plonking myself with my book in the cafeteria, as I got to the bit on how devoted public servants fiddle their expenses, I realised we were halfway across. I hadn’t even had a wee retch yet.

Maybe it’s because Andy is a golfer. He was skilfully slotting the ship with great precision neatly between the waves and somehow avoiding the rough.

But at 11.46am, with Scalpay sitting on the white-flecked horizon, the first ginormous wave hit. The 300ft ferry was hurled up in the air and then fell quickly with an almighty wallop.

Whoosh. A granny from Edinburgh fell backwards in the aisle, but landed softly, seesawing with her legs high in the air. Seeing her assorted petticoats flapping above her just as I was reading how councillors can claim for even their laundry and dry cleaning was very coincidental, I thought.

There was an almighty clatter as everything small and solid in the galley took flight. Flying pans, forking utensils and false teeth, all in rapid, noisy transit. The roast chicken became unexpectedly airborne before flopping down among the braised sausages and green peas rolling around in the corner.http://www.simplonpc.co.uk/Strait/Suilven_storm-02.jpg

The floored pensioner was left sprawled as the rest of us gallantly scrambled for the sickbags. She was OK, she shouted up. She had practised falling safely in the services. So she had kept her muscles relaxed as she had skited along the linoleum. Nothing to do with the gin she was smelling of, then.

Calm descended. There was an eerie silence and we all, eventually, began to giggle. Wickedly, the disarray in the galley had lightened our spirits. Even the hardy, trained professionals who sail the route day in, day out were having a bit of angst. So we were all comrades in commotion.

Within minutes, having given the crew just enough time to put back all the pans and ladles and tidy up, another wave struck. It was humungous. Swept skywards, the 5,500-tonne pride of East Loch Tarbert bucked heavenwards then crashed down with a thunderous roar into the deep, deep, foaming, deep briny.

Whoosh. Granny was off again. Catapulted out of her seat, she did a rolling half-somersault, shot across the floor and ended up wedged upside down under the table behind me.

This time, the clatter from the galley and serving area was loud and long. Every teaspoon and spoon must have ricocheted off every wall.

Yet that voyage was not unpleasant. In fact, taking the ferry Hebrides is the way to reach civilisation – for mainlanders, I mean. Captain Andy McCrindle, I hear, is from Girvan, lives on Arran and was deep sea before becoming permanent master of the Hebrides. Would I trust him to care for me in weather any fresher than my wife on Christmas night? Aye aye, Cap’n.

And what of my twice-toppled elderly travelling companion? She made a preposterously fast recovery after a swig of some amazingly restorative clear medicine from a green screwtop bottle she just happened to have with her.

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Published in the Press and Journal on October 29, 2008

Into the groove with Madonna

POOR Madonna. I have had to write to her. Having had to boot out her husband, she will be looking for another companion now and I am prepared to help her out. When she thinks about it, she’ll agree it makes perfect sense.

A woman of Madge’s years and experience will have learned by now that the best things come in small packages. And when it comes to tiny packages, I’m her man.

My own beloved has taken to pitying Madge’s banished husband and seems to sympathise with his plight. Hey, that’s it. There will be no need for any unpleasantness when I skedaddle with the superstar. I’ll just set up my wife with my new squeeze’s millionaire ex. Sorted.

Will my new partner and I get on? The secret, of course, will be to do everything together. What I have in mind can only be done together, but if it means I have to move to London and take up jogging so I can trot behind her round Hyde Park every morning, fine. I can do that. I have a couple of pounds to lose myself.

A multimillionaire superstar and devoted mother will have her peculiar wee ways, I don’t doubt. The fondness for large, pointed brassieres would worry some men. Not me. On her hen night, my dear present companion and her pals nearly plunged headlong into roadworks in the centre of Stornoway. They hadn’t noticed the warning signs and the traffic cones. Then they did notice the cones and the chains.

Just how women of an age when they should have known better managed to attach heavy street furniture to their upper bodies while wielding these large inflatable body parts that girls on hen nights wave about is still a mystery. It took half a pound of butter and a boltcutter from Arnish to get them off.

Meanwhile, it is that time again. I have taken the family down to the city of my birth for the annual spree that is the Buying of the Pants in the dear green place. Far from green, Glasgow is certainly dear. We had a stark reminder on Friday that we were not in the Hebrides. We got caught in the aftermath of an armed robbery at a bank in Shawlands. An apparently gun-toting hoodlum suddenly appeared and held up a security van delivering cash to the branch. The masked robber made his getaway with a cool £20,000. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen in Stornoway. All the robbers back home own filling stations. Just a joke. Just because petrol down here is under £1 a litre and it was still £1.21 at home earlier this week is not necessarily the fault of the local retailers. We all know it is due to distribution costs, turnover, etc, etc.

To recover from the shock of missing a bank robbery by minutes we went for a nerve-steadying cool drink at a nearby drive-thru burger, chicken and juice joint. Drive-thru? The only drive-thru in Stornoway is Point Street. And you can’t even do that between 10.30am and 6pm without a fixed penalty.

Driving round Glasgow, we’ve been making up games. We devised one where you have to quickly think of a song title starting with, for instance C, then drop the C and say it quickly. Longest wins. Her own Rystal Handeliers was a fair effort, but I am currently in the lead with Hirpy Hirpy Heep Heep.

An 11-year-old daughter may seem at a slight disadvantage with this one. Good: that doesn’t happen often.

Hooking up with the Material Girl came to me while being dragged around St Enoch’s, Braehead or was it Sauchiehall Street, all shopping centres to be avoided, guys. Make the most of it, my dear. Any day now, I will get summoned to go and comfort the distraught and soon-to-be-ex-Mrs Ritchie.

When she responds, life will be so different. Ms Ciccone apparently needs constant strenuous exercise to maintain that toned torso. I’ll think of a way to help her with that. She also seems determined to increase her family again. I’m sure I’ll think of a way to help her with that, too.

If I am actually still with my present high-maintenance wife going back across the Minch, Road Equivalent Tariff will have slashed the cost of taking the ferry. Carefully planned to ensure the first discounts would not benefit the filthy-rich Gaelic-mafia types who follow the Royal National Mod, it is a first step to addressing the costs of crossing that stretch of water which blocks job creation and efforts to make the islands a great place to live.

Still, why should I worry? I will be off to London and Los Angeles soon enough.

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Published in the Press and Journal on October 22, 2008

Save our Stornoway black puddings

HE DOES not look like someone who has eaten too many black puddings. He has that gaunt and hungry look about him of someone who eats green things with cherry tomatoes, instead of the fatty, greasy, bloody bits of sheep we mash up and force into a long tube as “marag dubh”.

Or, as we call them when trying to flog them to mainlanders, Stornoway black pudding.

I might be wrong, of course, and Peter Peacock might just have an overactive metabolism, but I doubt it. Yet it is this sleekest of MSPs who has taken up the parliamentary fight to protect the culinary marvel that is the marag.

There are dodgy marags about. A store here in Stornoway sells a lookalike sliced pudding marked “Made in Scotland”. Examine the small print and you will find out it actually contains German pigs’ blood.

I tried out the alien blood sausage. Determined to approach it scientifically, I grilled, fried, microwaved and oven baked some slices. However done, each was dry as a Free Church (Continuing) wedding. Devoid of that subtle yumminess, an acrid, heavy spice had obviously been chucked in to jazz it up. The consistency and texture on my tongue reminded me of eating “smuir”, the dirty, dusty, fibrous debris that remains where a peatstack has been.

I should know. When my brother found out I had tried unsuccessfully to sail the Airfix warship he took so much pride in building, he got me face down in a heap of smuir and held me until the stuff was tightly packed around my tonsils. I think it was Maggie Shields, our gallant neighbour, who saved me.

Stoutly built and held together with lashings of glue, she could still be at the bottom of Loch Roag – the model ship, I mean, not Maggie Shields. She, unsurprisingly, moved away and despite what she witnessed now lives comparatively peacefully in Kirkibost.

Butter wouldn’t melt in my brother’s particular cavity. He’ll be sitting there in Malaysia now, claiming he remembers nothing of how he scarred me mentally and orally, putting the skids on the rest of my childhood and reducing me to the bitter, twisted shell who quivers and grunts in front of you today.

But don’t worry, bro, it’s all forgotten. I won’t mention it again.

I gather a top Yorkshire restaurant famously specialises in roasted Whitby cod. Netted in the North Sea, the fish comes to table in a pistachio and herb crust with a red wine butter sauce and roast sweet peppers stuffed with moist, magical, mouthwatering marag dubh. Imagine. Mwah.

The secrets of making the finest marags are, of course, closely guarded. The four butchers in Stornoway will all claim to have a secret recipe handed down through the centuries. But they don’t know what I know. My father used to make them in our byre when I was young.

In a fine example of environmental concern, whenever they got a new tin bath for bathing us brats on Sunday nights in front of the fire, my parents would recycle the old one by scrubbing it and bring it back into service as a handy receptacle for the bundle of intestines and other shiny, squishy innards of a sheep.

We always called the bundle a “douche”, although I understand the word means something quite different on the mainland.

It was before e.coli 0157 had been invented, of course. The bathful of crimson goo was shlooped into the departed animal’s various sacs. The stomach, the long, narrow tubes and the chewy, ribbed things like a badly-made hot-water bottle, all were put to good use. The bladder, I think, was the bit best for stuffing full of the white-pudding mix with loads of oatmeal, suet and Co-op currants.

A fine treat that was for special occasions like going to church when ordered to or when recovering from being pummelled mercilessly into the smuir by an irate younger brother.

Sadly, under the agreement that we drew up with the Food Standards Agency, no one in the islands is allowed to talk with anyone who does not live here about the aphrodisiac effects of preparations involving marag and liberal quantities of guga oil. So, obviously, I cannot talk about that – despite all the proof that it works.

Just thinking of the taste of the black marag I am starting to drool. Unlike the time I had my mouth full of smuir. Did I not mention that? Well, it was like this: my brother Angus had taken ages building this model boat and I decided . . .

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Published in the Press and Journal on October 15, 2008

Hello Darkness, my old friend

I MUST go off the island more often. Tumultuous events occur when I do. I went to London once and our council lost £24million. Just like that. And while I was lapping it up in Aberdeen on Saturday with the great and the gorgeous of north Scottish journalism, a silky-smooth svengali who we thought had been vanquished forever from British politics slithered back into a position of power.

Mandelson? Oh no, that was Friday. Our new Cabinet business secretary is wet behind the ears compared to the new chairman of our islands’ Labour Party installed the next day. While we mere observers of politicos thought former councillor and sometime wannabe MSP Callum Ian MacMillan had been consigned to the wilderness, I dash back to the Long Island and find the cove is running things here already.

A weekend is now a very long time in politics.

Mandelson and MacMillan are interchangeable. Both seasoned spin doctors, they are descendants of longtime politicians and each helped push through mammoth building projects. And I may need far more space than this to detail their respective colourful private lives and how they are embroiled in the most dire financial scandals.

Mandelson was director of communications for New Labour and MacMillan’s brief is to tell us all how fantastic is Lews Castle College, where he goes to work. I say goes to work rather than works as no one seems very sure what he does. Rather like an EU trade commissioner.

Also, Mandelson is the grandson of the revered Herbert Morrison who, as home secretary, foreign secretary and deputy prime minister, did not quite make it to the big job between 1923 to 1951. A first cousin of MacMillan’s father who represented the islands in the same chamber from 1935 to 1970, Malcolm K. MacMillan held the record then for the longest speech. We who know the present generation find little to surprise us in that.

The Millennium Dome was plonked on the banks of the Thames because of Mandelson in a bid to emulate his grandfather who organised the Festival of Britain in 1951. My elevated old friend, meanwhile, is a leading light in the big – for Lewis – and nearly finished student accommodation-cum-essential workers lodgings, the Bridge Centre, on the banks of the Glen River here in Stornoway.

No white elephant, it is actually light grey. Wait till the sun shines on it.

Our shiny new business secretary and the prime minister could not stand each other until very recently. Meanwhile, we have MacMillan on local radio regularly yapping on about politics and, not that long ago, Labour types would fizz and roar that he was not a party spokesman and never would be. In turn, he was none too kind about apparatchiks on either side of the political spectrum.

He then baffles everyone by being often seen laughing and joking with SNP office-bearers as if they were bestest mates. He and right-wing Tory ex-councillor Donald Maclean described each other as pals. A prince of darkness indeed.

A storm blew up when he said on-air that the Archbishop of Canterbury was an idiot for supporting Sharia law. I sometimes worry he is falling too much under the influence of the Reverend Kenny I (Macleod) in Stornoway Free Church.

While Mandy’s hook-ups have been documented by the tabloid press, not so much is out there about MacMillan’s colourful exploits. That colour is blue. His club of choice may not have paparazzi lurking outside but he is regularly seen hanging out in the place to be seen, the Lewis and Harris Rangers Club.

Peter Mandelson was forced to quit the government when he got a dodgy loan to buy a house from someone his department was investigating. He let himself down, he let Tony Blair down and he let the country down. MacMillan has done something more scurrilous than that. He has let George Gawk down. He is so famously tight-pursed that George sighs and tells me he has more chance of getting wed to that cute barmaid from Harris he fancies in the Carlton Bar than getting a pint out of him.

Dear, dear. These are long odds indeed, George.

Kissing and making up with the committee and Westminster candidate Donald John Macsween, who blocked the prince partying into Holyrood in 1999, MacMillan will now toil to dislodge Angus MacNeil. But the MP has on his side his shining white record of standing against alleged corruption in the cash-for-honours debacle. So who is on the dark side?

Someone I spoke to about him must have told MacMillan that I am writing this because he’s now outside my window. Hello, old friend. I think he is signalling that he has snatched victory. Actually, it looks more like a John Prescott salute.

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Published in the Press and Journal on October 8, 2008

Why Mick Jagger is such a bodach

EVEN if occasional Lewis resident Molly Miller Mundy, age 23, is not having a fling with Sir Mick Jagger, who is 65, at least the whole kerfuffle has certainly made everyone think more about ages, relationships and what age gap we think is acceptable.

While many claim the only important thing is that they are both over the age of consent – and I believe he is that – others will take an altogether more pessimistic view. The spoilsports, I mean.

We have a Gaelic word for him. Mick Jagger is a bodach. You pronounce it as you would in English – bod-ach – but you put more emphasis on the bod.Try it. See? It ju t means older gentleman and is much more descriptive and appropriate and friendly than, say, OAP.

I hope the gossip is true. With Molly’s father living up here, the happy couple could soon be snapped late at night falling out of glitzy Stornoway nightspots.

If they want my advice, they had better stick to the places that George Gawk doesn’t go. No self-respecting rock legend would want to hear him go on ad nauseum about the achievements of Gordon Brown and Brian Wilson.

Yet the more I think about it the more I am inclined to believe it is all just utter nonsense. There would be too many jokes about Sir Mick’s past hits. If they did hitch up, people would say (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction was her special song. Would Mick ever again get away with singing Time Is On My Side?

While we know all old rockers want to Not Fade Away, the beknighted warbler may soon have to just gaze longingly humming I Just Wanna Make Love To You. Might a much younger partner take to ruefully singing It’s All Over Now?

What about bandmate Ronnie Wood who has a determined Russian waif in tow. The age difference there is only, oh yes, also about 42. So Mick could just say all he wants is to Doo Ron Ron. Sorry, that wasn’t the Stones. Forget I said that.

There are some strong women who are not prepared to just fade away either. Like former queen of the sofa Selina Scott who says it was ageist of Five News not to give an old timer like her a wee job.

http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39129000/jpg/_39129137_selina_scott203.jpgBut Selina, who famously came over to film Prince Charles with Splash and Gloria MacKillop on Berneray, wanted that job and is jolly well going to fight them. She says she is going to sue Five News for giving it to a wee lassie who, not that long ago, worked for this very newspaper. Gorgeous pouting young thing Isla Traquair got the stand-in news job while the regular newsreader, £1million-a-year stunner Natasha Kaplinsky, went off to have her baby boy.

Like Selina, Ms Traquair is also fondly remembered in these parts. She came over quite a few times during her stint with STV and, yes, we were on assignment together more than once. Isla was recognised in Ludag, Luskentyre and Leurbost. She tells how one ardent admirer travelled from the islands to Aberdeen to hand her a box of Milk Tray. That must have been worth a wee snog on the cheek, surely.

Another STV glamourpuss was over here recently and was accosted outside Bain Morrison, the builders’ merchant. A dedicated viewer, a man called Roddy who used to work on the ferry, spotted Nicola McAlley and galloped over to tell her that he and his wee dog liked nothing better than curling up on the sofa to see what exotic location Nicola was reporting from.

As Nicola is based in Inverness, it is usually council headquarters or Porterfield Prison but he didn’t care. As long as he got a glimpse of Nicola and that awfully cheeky, wee smile.

La Scott used to be so nice to everyone. Up in Stornoway during the filming with the heir to the throne, she stayed at the Caberfeidh Hotel. As she had a very early flight to catch, the night porter at the time made her breakfast and checked her out. So entranced was he with the vision of loveliness handing over her room key and slipping her warm American Express card into his cold hand that the porter failed to notice that the card had expired.

Happily, the bill was paid and Jimmy Ogilvie kept his job. Now resident in Ogilvie Towers in Keith Street, the house with the Not Open To The Public sign at the door, he still fondly recalls that morning with Selina.

Young girls are so impressed with his tales of famous people he has met that they are often banging on his door at midnight, he tells me. Sometimes, Jimmy adds, he even gets up to let them out.

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Published in the Press and Journal on October 1, 2008