GROWING up on Great Bernera meant that seafood was as common for us as monosodium glutamate and E numbers are to the kids today.
Yum, winkles on Saturday night while the oldies were glued to Alastair McDonald and Peter Morrison on the box giving it heerum-ho about bonny lassies fae Argyll.
Quite irresponsibly, my mother would hand us sewing needles and hat pins for the extraction of flesh therefrom.
I always hid the sharps so later I could grab my squawky wee brother, bundle him into the wardrobe and stab him repeatedly till blood ran red.
Aow, aow, aow. It was the shower scene from Psycho – but without any water. Norman Bates before he got connected to the mains, that was me. Ah, such happy days.
Later, with guys I knew on boats working out of Stornoway, a stroll round the quay often brought forth Presto bags brimming with colossal cod, magnificent monkfish and pythonic prawns. The guys were always good for a fry.
Lying around the deck would often be an eerie-looking thing with a large gaping mouth and straggly bits hanging from it. A denizen of the deep? No, just Puss having a kip.
It was the kindly fellow Gavin Mackay who sidled up in the Star Inn last week and asked if I fancied some squid.
Thinking he meant skunk, not a stinky animal any more but stinky cannabis, I said no, explaining that lager makes me wobbly enough, thank you, Gav. But only squid was offered.
Declining the offer were playboy Roddy Macleod, just back from tanning his beard in the Balearics, and Derek Goosey, a talented entertainer who happily is available for the enjoyment of millions of adoring fans on YouTube.
Just Google Goosey. And Derek and Star Inn.
My own first encounter with squid was in a lively eaterie in Brighton. My boss said he was full up and asked if I liked calamari. I said yes, thinking she was the after-dinner entertainer. You know, Kelly Marie, the blone from Paisley.
There was me expecting Feels Like I’m In Love, but all I got was the managing director’s tentacles on a plate.
So, after giving Gavin a frothy half-quart for his trouble, off I wobbled with my big black bin bag of squiddy, squidgy, squishiness slung over my shoulder.
Up with the Friday lark to examine my catch, I peered into the black bag. All I could make out was a golf ball.
When I realised it was a big eye staring out, I got such a fright I wet my pyjamas. There must have been seawater sloshing about in that bag. There were 11 other eyes in there and a lot of long, straggly bits hanging off them.
The BBC Food website said pull apart, remove quills, chop into rings. And you must avoid cutting through the ink sac, it said. Oops. Sorry.
Very hot pan, olive oil, lime juice, garlic salt, dried chillies, coriander, what else is in the cupboard, soy sauce, wee splash, mayonnaise, yeah good dollop, three minutes’ tossing like chefs do on the telly. Fabuloso.
Rings, wings and straggly things, I have been scoffing the lot. And, despite my sensitive innards, I have not been consigned to the water closet.
Unlike our islands’ economy. We now have 44 people chasing each job vacancy here. No wonder more families last week decided to quit for the mainland. It is utterly depressing and shows how badly our local leaders, who should be attracting all kinds of jobs here, are letting us down.
People tell me they are shocked things are so bad. Can’t think why. Not while we have so many intolerant crackpots doing their utmost to make our islands grossly unattractive and awkward for job-creating businesses.
Who is standing up and saying things must change? Is there not one elected representative rocking the boat and saying we need a seven-day ferry service and we need it now? Nope. Who is declaring that the old ways which the barmy traditionalists still claim have served us so well just do not cut it any more? Not a solitary sausage. No one, because most councillors are either OAPs, in cushy jobs or hopeless and the parliamentarians won’t risk a single vote – even although they all know their sad silence is destroying the place. Saying it privately is not good enough, fellas.
This week’s election to Stornoway Trust should be interesting – but probably won’t be. Have you noticed there are apparently forward-thinking individuals standing for election who seem, at least, to be committed to real change? And, even more interestingly, they are not the usual high-profile, useless committee junkies.
The other day, I was shown the promises our great trustees made at previous elections. Sheesh. They were going to make the trust a ground-breaking leader in land management, a magnet for jobs and innovation and would foster a spirit of responsible and collective entrepreneurship. A load of tentacles. And all we can expect is even more empty promises unless real people with new ideas are supported.
Even if you, gentle reader, don’t agree with a single word I have said, if you live in the trust area, please go and vote and get others out. I know the deadline for receiving postal votes is today, but you can still vote in person tomorrow.
Get that form you got in the post out of the cat tray. It could be the touchpaper for a blaze of revitalising energy which could save us all from those to whom we have so foolishly entrusted our children’s futures.
Hardly anyone votes at a trust election. They are lucky to get a double-figure percentage turnout sometimes. And apathy has brought only misery, fragmented families and undeserved opportunities for a group of sad souls who really ought to be doing something useful with their lives.
Tell me that you read this and were inspired to vote and I’ll speak to Gavin about getting you a squid with all the long straggly bits. Deal?
