MUCH of the Harris Tweed industry turned out in best bib and tucker for a swish exhibition and fashion show on Friday to tell the world that it can make so much more than the sensible jackets which are so smartly modelled each day by the likes of Donald Martin, the dapper chairman of the tweed authority.
Firstly, Gaeldom royalty arrived in the still-cute form of Ishbel Macaskill, who was trying hard to be miserable. Her repertoire, she said, would include traditional Hebridean offerings so famously all about being demoralised, being drowned or being dumped. And often all three.
Happily, she diverted a bit and plumped for a stirring selection including a waulking song. Hard graft, which was why the women did it. Except in Cape Breton where Ishbel saw the male of the species rubbing up the Clo Mor. Her theory is that, when families emigrated, the women developed a certain bolshiness mid-Atlantic. When they got to the other side they told the menfolk that, in their new homeland, there would be new rules. That was then but this is now, a bhalaich.
Cumbrian snapper Ian Lawson has been taking photos of the island landscape, the people and the tweed for several years. He then sort of fuses it all together, so we had his fantastic colourful images expanded onto the cinema screen with music. From glorious beach vistas to close-ups of tweed and yarn and views of islanders going about their everyday business. To see Archie Gillies, the Tarbert shepherd, blown up to the size of a gable-end was fairly heart-stopping.
One of island designer Sandra Murray's creations
You may know that, when the catwalk show was first planned, myself and Lorna Macaulay, the authority chief exec, intended to model the designers’ latest creations. I don’t know why but, for some strange reason, it was decided instead to fly in eight professional supermodels from around Europe. Me, I don’t care but Lorna must have been gutted.
Four guys and four girls they were. Don’t get me wrong, they were fine. Thin as rakes but they did a passable job. Right, so they were really quite smoulderingly beautiful. The girls were nice too.
One of them — a blonde lass who was like Kate Moss but prettier and younger, with legs up to her lobes and a better taste in men — was eyeing me up. I kid you not. In every outfit, she winked and pouted over my way. I had plonked myself right at the end of her runway. Lucky for her.
So don’t believe me then. I was a bit surprised too but, put it this way, it was either to me or to Fred Silver she was giving the glad eye. I know Fred is a fine chap, for someone of his years, but would you put your money on him being the one to have caused that lithe young thing to pulsate like that?
Ach, I’ve still got it.
One of the other bobby dazzlers seemed to be fixated on Rae Mackenzie, who was sitting behind us. The slimline maiden on the catwalk must have figured out that he was a big-bucks director of a mill. What she did not bargain for was that it was his wife, Nellie, who was sat beside him to keep him in line.
Sorry love, you’ve no chance. Nellie is a right battleaxe. And my wife’s not here. Hello.
The designers had toiled to make truly spectacular outfits. We saw the most incredibly original creations, all of which had begun life as a pile of weft and warp in a draughty loomshed.
A parade of tartan-clad models
Then one of the models came out wearing for a top just a Harris Tweed seacaid mor. Just the jacket. Poor cove must have dressed in a hurry because he had forgotten to button it up. It was hanging open and showing his ribs and stuff. I would not have done that as you can so easily catch a chill if you don’t do up all your buttons.
I should draw a veil over what happened next. Seeing that rough, raw Clo Mor and the Orb rubbing up against the sinewy flesh of this fellow just seemed to throw a switch in the brains of the overwhelmingly female audience. These WAGs took to whooping and making somewhat unladylike noises as he strutted.
When the hunk with the chiselled jawbone structure then threw off the herringbone-patterned jacket – one of about 70,000 that Brian Haggas is still trying to flog, I believe – to reveal a torso so hot and glistening that you could fry eggs on it, scores of women’s mouths fell open in unison. Then a chorus began of gasping and grunting in the most peculiarly unpresbyterian manner.
Margaret Doig, the deputy lord lieutenant, bravely struggled to maintain a dignified composure, though I bet her mouth was not open that wide to catch flies. Pounding the cloth with his fists — a clever device to show the lad had muscles as well as pecs — only brought forth inevitable demands for him to also whip off his breeks. Wisely, he fled as some women were loudly offering to personally undo more buttons.
After she had cooled down, I had a chinwag with Ishbel, arguably the world’s greatest living Gaelic singer and also Gaeldom’s First Lady of Soul. I told her Donald Martin must have got it wrong saying she first sang at the 1979 Mod. She seemed to have been embedded in my consciousness for longer.
Suddenly, the eyes of the golden-voiced angel from the head of Loch an Duin were piercing mine. I heard a sharp intake of breath. It dawned on me she must have thought I was calling her an old bat. But then dear, sweet Ishbel whispered that it was the sweetest thing anyone had said to her in a long time.
Phew. I live to put my size nine in it another day.
