Iain Maciver writes …

HALLOWEEN was so different when I was a lad. We dressed up as ghosts and ghouls, but there was a lot more to it when we went guising round the village. We would be dragged into houses out of the downpour to give a rendition of some supposedly-prepared Gaelic song or poem.

There was none of the cranky concerns we have heard in recent years that it was inappropriate for the ancient pagan ritual of Samhain to be acted out in the living room of an elder in the Free Church of Scotland in masks from Woolies which cost one and six in the old money.

The man of the house would call the whole family together from upstairs and sometimes summon the people from next door to hear it, too. There was this hushed expectation of an incredible rendition by me and my chubby wee brother.

Boy, we knew how to work that room. Our audience was entranced. We were on fire. Actually, that was usually because our performances were always in front of a roaring peat inferno. The idea was that the fire would quickly dry the back of our sodden trousers enough for us to sit on the sofa without leaving a puddle behind afterwards.

Sometimes, though, we stood too close and the acrid smell of singeing bri-nylon would be choking us by the time we reached the second chorus of Balaich an Iasgaich.

We were rubbish, really. Having diligently practised the entire thing for about, oh, 10 minutes, we were hardly word perfect. Nevertheless, we were instantly rewarded with jelly babies, oranges and immense riches which I had better not confirm here in case the taxman reads the P&J.

Then it was all back to my pad for a party. Everyone under the age of 10 was then caught by the scruff of the neck and half-drowned in the tin bath which normally was used for keeping together the offal for making black puddings – smelly or what.

Being then set the virtually impossible task of trying to catch a bobbing apple with what was left of your baby teeth while having your head plunged into what seemed to little me like a vat of burning oil was such a jolly caper. Fun for all the family, but not nowadays, apparently.

Some years ago around this time, I answered the door to a group of rough-looking coves. Far too old to be proper guisers, they were scary despite having no masks. Their designer T-shirts were well ironed and they had handmade leather pouches for their Golden Virginia.

Obviously from a really dodgy part of town, I thought. Probably Goathill Crescent or Smith Avenue; somewhere round there.

When I asked what they were going to perform for me, the coves stared as if I had gone completely bonkers. I quickly gathered they just wanted the wonga. So, after their resounding chorus of “Uh, nuthink, mistah”, I gave them a magnificent pound coin out of the kindness of my heart and shooed them away. I had only just settled back down with my Horlicks when I heard a loud kersplatt on the window. The wee nyaffs were chucking eggs at the house.

Obviously they thought their carefully-hidden talents were worth much more than my golden sovereign.

I was fizzing. Memories of my own polite bottom-burning Halloween renditions of yore came flooding back. My brow furrowed and I began to cackle and think wicked thoughts. Now I was the adult, I wanted to haul them in and roast them in front of the fire until they were medium-rare and then dunk them repeatedly in the bath until they, too, were as dizzy as I once was.

But no. Mrs X was having none of it. She had just wiped down the bathroom floor and I would need to go down to Colin Oisean for more coal if any small children were to be roasted in the house that night.

See what I mean? The fun has just gone out of the whole thing.

So, rather than spending the evening waiting to pounce on passing guisers, on Saturday I instead plonked myself down and watched X Factor. Some of them are really good this year. There’s Stacey, Danyl, and the wobbly wannabe-turned-diva, Rachel Adedeji.

And then there’s John and Edward.

Now, there are a couple of upstarts who could really get on my wig. They are so full of themselves. The Irish twins have managed to divide the nation. They have split the programme’s judging panel and, worst of all, managed to spark all-out war among the checkout girls in the Stornoway Tesco.

First, there’s that ridiculous gravity-defying hair; then there’s the look-at-me snottiness, and, finally, there are the awful singing voices so dull and tuneless that when I heard them first I looked up expecting John and Edward to be John Prescott and Prince Edward.

However, Prince Edward is far too refined for that sort of thing and John Prescott is never snotty – unless, of course, you do what the Goathill scallies did and throw eggs at him.

Let’s face it, the X Factor’s John and Edward can’t sing for toffee. They aren’t very co-ordinated when they dance, but they do try very hard. They looked a bit nightmarish with their black Halloween make-up on Saturday – a bit like Morag the barmaid in the Carlton when she starts shouting it’s time to go home. Well, she scares me.

By the time you read this, the twins may have been booted out of the competition never to be seen again. On the other hand, as I suspect, John and Edward will have, yet again, miraculously made it through to sing and dance next weekend.

Although we will probably see them at the final before Christmas which – and you heard it here first – dizzy Stacey will win by a mile. Or I am a banana.