MY OWN view had always been that all this fuss about ageism on TV was a bit over the top. It was all a bad case of sour grapes by personalities who had been passed over.
That was until the other day when my own wife suddenly jumped up, pointed crazily at the TV screen and screeched: “Look, look, it’s Big Al. Oh, he’s such a lovely man. Isn’t he? Look, look. He is going up and down on that boat.”
I had been dozing and the telly had been on a news channel and I thought she was watching some interview about Baroness Scotland’s cleaning lady or some other hugely important issue that had been dominating the news agenda.
But as she has always had so little interest in politics that she could be a member of the Monster Raving Loony Party for all I know, I was intrigued about what she was watching.
Who the heck was Big Al? Who is this so-called “lovely man”?
As I tried to focus on the box in the corner, my mind was racing. Was it Alistair Darling or even Alastair Campbell who had caused such raptures? No, didn’t think so. Maybe it was our MSP, Alasdair Allan? Hmm, maybe not.
As the mists of slumber cleared, I realised she wasn’t watching the news. She was glued to the BBC series Trawlermen. And there was a burly fisherman on there called Big Al yapping away.
With all the “ye kens” and “fit likes”, like most of them on that series, I gathered he was from the north-east. And, it turns out, he is a regular visitor to Stornoway, too.
Now I am quite sure Big Al is a nice guy. He seemed to be. But it was just such a shock for me to discover that my wife knew anyone from the north-east – and a TV star at that.
They are just so hard to understand over there, particularly for us Hebrideans who are all taught the Queen’s English – and, very often, the Queen’s Gaelic, too.
And Big Al is not that young, either. He may even be as old as myself. Normally, I would not be fretting unless she was cosying up to a younger man. But TV stars are different to the rest of us. You have to watch them, if you know what I mean.
Something happens to people when they appear on the telly. I don’t know what it is, but TV stars seem to become instantly more attractive to everyone. Even older people – except Bruce Forsyth, obviously.
No wonder all these old codgers like Arlene Phillips and Selina Scott are furious when they are replaced by younger models. How they must miss the adoration, the public recognition, the pay cheque.
Mark Thompson, the director-general of the Beeb, has decided to do something to stop the oldies’ whining. He has personally ordered a nationwide search to find a semi-intelligible woman who is at least 50 to read the news. Come on, there has to be one somewhere.
The corporation is always looking to cut costs, so they are especially keen to hear from candidates who could turn their hand to other things, apart from the national news. They may want them, for example, to present Panorama occasionally, or Newsnight. That sort of thing. Anything to save money.
Which gives a great opportunity for a, er, more-mature Gaelic-speaker to apply. She could then work on BBC Alba when she was not on national TV. It would save a packet. It would also bring a bit of gravitas to Alba, where sometimes the average age of the autocuties at times seems to be closer to 21 than 51.
Except, of course, when Norman Campbell is before the camera. Now there is gravitas. Thankfully, he has the necessary jowls and furrowed brow which the army of highly-paid make-up experts who are called in when he is on duty have always completely failed to conceal.
Don’t you worry, though, a Thormoid. That is a good thing. It ensures that your viewers really, really believe that you really, really mean what you are saying.
Just don’t go spoiling it by saying something really daft such as Highlands and Islands Enterprise being dedicated to ensuring its resources are well-used around the north of Scotland or that it has its priorities just right.
Now that it has decided that having decided that Invershneggie is the place in most urgent need of its tens of millions of pounds, HIE is in the black books with everyone who is not based in that city. So no one is going to believe nonsense like that about it any more.
A while back, I did a wee thing for the Gaelic TV channel myself. The feedback was very interesting. While I was not exactly mobbed in Tesco afterwards, one of the checkout girls did happen to smile my way. She beep-beeped my mackerel fillets and whispered softly that I looked a whole lot younger on screen.
Well, I bounced out of there with wings on my heels. I got on the phone to the TV people. I made sure they knew I was available for all future shows. I’ll read the news; I’ll cook with Cathy; I’ll be Padruig Post. Anything to stop the advance of wrinkliness.
For some reason, they haven’t actually phoned me back yet. I’m sure they must be very busy.
Annie Macdonald, the councillor and cousin of my own, was on the same programme. She tells me she got similar plaudits about looking many years younger. Annie is chuffed to bits, obviously, but then she is a woman. Goodness knows how long it took her to trowel on the slap to get that wide-eyed innocent youthfulness that the men on our side of the family are naturally blessed with.
Women are different to men. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe I ought to stop now.
