Iain Maciver writes …

DID you know that the average British woman’s bottom measures 34 inches? They are not the most gigantic in Europe, either, because the average rump of an Italian mama mia is a whopping two inches larger.

And did you know that the average marriage in Britain lasts just 11.5 years? So, I have done more than most – although I was sentenced to more. A bit like Abdelbaset al Megrahi.

Abdelbaset al-Megrahi

No, stop me there. I must try and not mention him. I could get carried away.

Instead, let me make it crystal clear now that I have absolutely no intention of reaching for the measuring tape to size up the tush of anyone in this house because, if I did, I know I, too, would soon be included in the statistics for battered husbands, divorced journalists and battered and divorced journalists to boot.

The reason I share all these fascinating facts with you now is because I can. A wonderful book is out called 8 Out Of 10 Brits: Intriguing and Useless Statistics About The World’s 79th Largest Nation. It sets out some gobsmacking details and comparisons which make us what we are.

For instance, did you even think that about one in 10 people under 35 would happily give Botox as a Christmas present? Amazing, eh? But I couldn’t do it.

“Darling, you know how much I love you. It’s not that you’re ugly or anything, but here is something that will probably give you the complexion of a dead haddock.”

And we watch 219 minutes of telly a day. And more now because the time of year has come round again when families attach themselves to the sofa after tea on a Saturday and just forget all about feeding the oxen, ploughing the fields or cutting the hay.

Yes, it’s that time again. It’s time for Simon Cowell to make a few more million quid.

You will not catch me putting my life on hold for hours each week to gawp at X Factor on ITV1, Xtra Factor on ITV2 and the repeats. No way.

Whether half the country is doing it or not, the very last thing I want to do with my weekend is vegetate in front of that awful trash TV which rots mind, body and soul.

Well, maybe I saw a teeny bit of it. I can’t avoid it in this house, right? I am running around and I can’t get the vacuuming done. The others I share my so-called life with won’t even lift their feet as the parade continues of poor, unfortunate, vulnerable types for our pleasure. I don’t just mean Louis Walsh, either.

From the few seconds I did catch, Cheryl Cole did look slightly mega-fantastic.

As always. The Minogue woman was completely outclassed and should go back to being someone’s wee sister. When all those hopeless hopefuls were on at the start, I thought Dannii should be on that stage.

And wasn’t that teacher guy at the end great? What a stonker of a performance. He had me going like only Iain Mackay, the Point piston-fixer, can do when he launches into that famous anthem about the tackety boots.

I ud ud eatharam, I ud ud aoiream, I ud ud eatharam, Chunna mise ‘raoir thu.

For the couple of readers of this column without Gaelic, that is all pronounced as: Ee udd udd ayaram, ee udd udd uyarumm, ee udd udd ayaram. And the last bit translates as: I saw you last night. What do the other bits mean? Who knows? It is just nonsense. But it’s Gaelic nonsense.

It’s not the words, you see. It’s the oomph.

Iain delivers these slightly-puzzling but obviously lust-inspired lyrics with lorry-loads of gusto and panache.

On X Factor, Simon Cowell got a mere flash of that from the singing teacher. But the Bayble Barnstormer does it all the time.

It is about time we had a Gaelic singer on there. We had the wacko warbler Rhydian giving it laldy in Welsh, so why not?

Iain, you’re young-ish, you’re good looking-ish, you like a wee drop-ish. And you have the likeability factor. Step up to the plate.

Quick, hide the knives and forks, because Iain likes his grub.

It must be lonely for contestants up there on the stage. Lonely as in Kenny MacAskill lonely. When I stumbled into him in An Lanntair gallery a couple of weeks ago, I did think he was preoccupied with something.

He had that faraway look in his eyes. He only nibbled at one haggis, neep and spud skewer.

If only I had known. I would have told him to do the right thing. But no need. He did it anyway. Now he is being bullied.

Did I say to stop me mentioning Megrahi? Forget it, sunshine. Scotland is being bullied by people who think we are a country which cannot take big decisions. We are being bullied by dinosaurs who cannot hide their monstrous tendencies. Scottish dinosaurs, too.

Led mainly by Labour, of course. Old Labour, New Labour, crazy Labour, ex-Labour, the FBI and Uncle Tom Cobley. Even the occasionally-upright George Gawk is at it.

They think they see a chance for scoring points and in they charge like herds of wildebeest sweeping across the machair showing that a party supposedly devoted to care and social conscience is not worth tuppence against political opportunism.

Not a word against the proper, compassionate release of terminal prisoners until the spotlight is on us, oh no.

How lucky we are to have a few freethinkers unfettered by dogma left in Scotland. No, not George Gawk. I told you; he is now off my list.

I mean Tam Dalyell, who seems now to be the only decent, conscience-driven fellow among them. He, too, is up there on a surprisingly lonely stage.

Dontcha just luv the lot of ‘em?

Er, no.

Pity Tam Dalyell has retired. He would have got my vote to go through to the live semi-finals.