Iain Maciver writes …

My grandfather would tut loudly at reports on the wireless that the Americans were going to try and put a man on the moon. These rockets and sputniks would make the weather worse which would ruin the corn harvest and he did not believe a moon landing was possible anyway. No good would come of it.

Even though it is 40 years today since Neil Armstrong went walkabout on the big cheese in the sky, grandpa may have been right about the rest – except for my corkscrew. It was developed with NASA technology. Effortlessly opening a fine plonk is a benefit for mankind surely, even at Tesco’s prices.

Even I found it difficult to believe a yarn I heard about an executive at a North Scottish broadcasting organisation. The unfortunate fellow suffered a puncture in his gleaming new 4×4 on his way in to work the other day. Late and harassed, he set about changing the wheel but he could not find the spare wheel.

He hunted everywhere; under the carpet, under the bonnet and even under the vehicle itself. Nothing. So he had to call out a tyre service to extricate him from his predicament. Tiresome or what.

Fuming furiously and fulsomely, he called the garage that supplied the wagon and melted the phone. Why had they sold him a vehicle with no spare wheel? It was nothing short of outrageous. He was thinking of demanding his money back.

The sales manager remained ultra-cool. Had sir noticed anything attached to the wagon’s back door, by any chance? Something sheathed in a durable cover? Something vaguely circular, perhaps?

Our high-heid yin turned a most unpleasantly crimson hue. Had he not been so busy looking in and under the wagon he may have realised 4×4 wheels are so big the spare is hung on the back door. The red-faced exec, who I am told has South Uist connections, croaked: “Well, that’s a daft place to put it,” before replacing the receiver and wincing.

Which is what a wonderful old lady from the West Side said to an elder she met on Saturday who suggested that God had hand-picked some of the best people he could find and had put them all on an island called Lewis off the north of Scotland. By putting us together, God would know where to find a good person if he needed one in a hurry.

Which was why, he added, it was the Almighty himself who had made our ferry break down on Friday to show His displeasure at the start of Sunday sailings.

My dear friend looked him straight in the eye and said: “I am in my late-70s and the doctors tell me that I can expect to get confused some days and come out with stuff which might puzzle people around me. I am glad to have met you today. Now I know it’s not me that’s confused. It’s some of the people around me.”

Exit elder stage left.

There was also confusion for a while about our council’s Gaelic supremo Alasdair Macleod and his new bride, Joan Mackinnon, the newly-elevated director of education and stuff like that. They scuttled away to the mainland a couple of weeks ago. Soon after, mysterious texts arrived saying things like: “Seonag and Alasdair got married today – no kidding.” Was it a wind-up? Nobody knew.

But marry they did and on the QT. The speculation in the Gaelic and education offices would, the lovebirds figured, have subsided when they returned from their moon of honey.

The nonchalance of their colleagues when they sneaked back to work last week only hid the conspiracy afoot. A surprise party was sprung at which guests heard fascinating speeches and telegrams. One was from the Island Games football squad advising the bride that Alasdair had failed to make the grade even though they had tried him in every position. They hoped she would have more success. Good luck with that, Joan.

Also revealed that evening was the Alasdair Macleod Emergency Guide to Council Gaelic. Our Alasdair has devised a series of instantly memorable handy phrases transcribed phonetically that can get you by when you happen to bump into any of the council leadership or any of the Gaelic mafia.

Early in the day, you bid them good morning with a cheerful “Madeen vah.” After midday, that becomes “Feska mah.”. Easy.

If you were to meet the convener, for instance, and he said anything to you in Gaelic, the guide suggests you should always reply “Magga-reeroo”. Thereby, your response would be “Just perfect”. An ideal response – unless, of course, he was asking you what you thought of Sunday sailings.

Not that I have seen the guide, mind, but according to my sources it also includes handy phrases useful for any council employee.

How about: “Um bee ooh teen show treek?”

That, I reckon, helps you puts the very necessary question “Do you come here often?”

Another one that could be readily used in the social setting of a pub or club when inquiry is made about the quantity of refreshment desired would be: “Shaytay vore a haggamsah”. That is the correct and culturally-colourful method of declaring “Mine’s a large one.” I use that one in the Carlton all the time.

It’s so handy to have the right words and express them correctly. Like a loved-up friend of ours who is just back after a romantic holiday of sun, sea and something with her fiance in the South of France. She ran into my house the other day and looked so excited and a-tremble that she could hardly speak. I told her to calm down and asked if they had a good time.

“Oui, oui,” she said. My, I thought, her grasp of the language in two short weeks is fabulous. Unfortunately, she was not actually saying “Yes, yes” in French. Turns out she picked up a nasty bladder infection and was just desperate to go to the bathroom. Oops.