Monthly Archives: January 2010

Rock and Chips – the comedy drama that wasn’t

If one-off drama Rock and Chips was indeed written by the wonderful John Sullivan, who penned Only Fools and Horses, then he has had his funny bone surgically removed. The BBC should never have flagged up this shabby excuse for resurrecting a dead horse as a so-called comedy drama.

Light drama, smutty drama, predictable drama, all that. But comedy drama, never.
Just four gags I counted which made it past the final edit to delight us in this long-awaited time-shifted prequel to Only Fools, which just a few months ago was billed more-accurately as Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘n’ Chips. Two lines were good, one was OK and one only just titterworthy.

Funny that the BBC, in the eerie must-be-seen-to-be-cautious post-Jonathan Ross climate, is so jittery about the word sex in the title yet still gives viewers no hint of the avalanche of heavy trouser-popping smut in the show itself. The sole short warning ahead of the programme was about strong language.

When Freddie Robdal, played by a sour-faced rather than plonkerish Nicholas Lyndhurst, told of his mate who died in the Nestlé factory when he fell in the vat of coffee, Joan Trotter said it was an awful way to go. “Oh no,” says Freddie. “It was instant.”  Actually, that was probably the only good line.

James Buckley plays a fine Cockney wideboy but, sadly, not as Delboy Trotter. Well, he looks nothing like him for a start. Having a wide mouth and saying ‘awight’ with a semi-swagger is not enough. Not Buckley’s fault, of course. He was miscast.

The other regulars, Boycie, Trigger, Denzil and Jumbo Mills were better. Their lines though were rarely short of dire. The pressure to make Trigger say something stupid resulted in blank stares in our house. Just didn’t work. For any of us. Yeah, just stupid.

However, getting Calum MacNab as Roy Slater was a rare inspiration by someone. I could actually look at him and see the sleazy ex-cop who made Del and his pals’ lives hell in later years.

The numerous scenes with Del’s mum and the cinema manager Ernie Rayner with the disgusting habits, played suitably nauseatingly by Robert Daws, were just an excuse for pure, unadulterated and inexcusable smut. Come on Sullivan. Come on, Jay Hunt, controller of BBC1.

That late-night Channel Four and arthouse-style filth was not what we expected from a spin-off of OFAH, which grannies and teenagers alike could get belly-laughs from. Just a thought. How many young kids were allowed to stay up late because it was sold as being from the same stable as its classic predecessor – or successor – and were heartlessly exposed to that load of cringeworthy old dirty-old-man tosh from the foulest sewers of saff London?

If Hunt, who commissioned it, tries to defend it that will surely mean she is already spending hundreds of thousands of our cash on buying another one. If she doesn’t, then, as I speak, it will surely be laid to rest, alongside what’s left of Grandpa’s ashes, somewhere down the Old Kent Road.

Why I predict some lads could get bashed in Carloway tonight

SO, HER Majesty is forking out a cool £300,000 to hire the former MV Columba. Summer isn’t summer without the royals coming up the west coast for picnics in sneaky, out-of-the-way places. I promise to leave her alone this year, but I did sort of accidentally on purpose bump into her and her family one summer.

I was on Barra. Looking out from the Craigard Hotel, I saw a familiar bow and masts in the distance. It was the Royal Yacht Britannia.

The Barrachs were unexcited. Yeah, the Royal Family would be taking their smoked salmon sandwiches and caviar on the nearby uninhabited island of Sandray. They did it every year.

Well, I wasn’t going to hire a boat to go to Sandray to get a wee photo. Naw, not worth it. Then a fisherman told me the royal tenders had actually come into the wee beach over the hill on Vatersay. Ah, could be worth a wee toddle round there. Enlisting the help of my mate Margaret Ann Macintyre, from Northbay, as assistant photographer, we set off, crossed the causeway and began to climb that hill.

Margaret Ann was fit as a deer, but I was pewchled. Suddenly, there they were. As we peered over the summit, the royals were standing around as the footmen tidied up, taking the tablecloths and crates of empty bottles back to the boats. Keen to impress Margaret Ann with my outdoor skills, I crawled down on my belly, SAS-style, to get closer to clinch that shot which would propel me to national stardom when it appeared on the cover of Hello!

Even on my belly I am not what you would call low-profile. Some eagle-eyed security men spotted me. They were fly. They set off, some going east, some west and I realised they were trying to get behind me and cut me off. The goons’ pincer movement did not work. I bravely stood up and ran – back into Vatersay. Yanking Margaret Ann along behind me, I made it back to the car about 10 times faster than I went up.

Racing through Vatersay in first gear – well, you can’t remember to do everything – I could see the minders on the hill scratching their heads. They would have had powerful long lenses. My photo is probably on a wanted list in the palace. Maybe I should keep out of their sights for a bit.

There are, however, many interesting seaside places the royals could see here. Like Carloway. Tucked in between Breasclete and Shawbost, many thousands go each year to see the early social housing scheme at Gearrannan blackhouses. The Broch, an example of the earliest secure flats, is also a famed landmark.

As well as having names which suggest the Vikings were there for some time, Carloway saw bloody battles over cattle raiding. An Uigeach called Dòmhnall Cam MacDhùghaill trapped cattle-raiding Morrison scoundrels from Ness, herded them into the Broch and choked them by tossing in clumps of burning heather.

Let me just stress that the cove in question was from Uig itself, not Great Bernera. The last thing I want is a ruffian from Skigersta turning up here at all hours with a fiery torch in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other, muttering that he is going to right some ancient wrongs perpetrated by my ancestors.

Some of the bloodiest battles in Carloway were in the 1970s. The Carloway Hall was then the scene of at least a fortnightly scrap of epic proportions.

This was where rugged Carlowegians would square up to and comprehensively thump Shawbostonians, Nisich and even us Berneranians who happened to look twice at any of the giggly maidens of Pentland Drive, Kirvick or even as far away as Garynahine. They guarded them as jealously as their flocks of blackfaces.

After exhausting themselves with a bout of violent blood-letting, the Carloway pugilists would then shake on it. Out would come the half-bottle and everyone would be best pals.

Then, as the cockles warmed and strength returned, the Carloway guys would accuse the visitors of swigging too much and not leaving them any. They would proceed to knock seven bells out of them again. Ah, happy days.

I had better not go into too much detail. Some of the worst ones hold top jobs in national government, industry, quangos and, of course, Western Isles Council.

It’s all changed now. They are a very civilised lot over there. I saw some of the lads from the Carloway football team on Friday in one of downtown Stornoway’s more upmarket social venues. The lads were on good form and Mary Maclean, she of the health board’s healthy eating project but in an altogether different role that evening, tells me the banter was excellent.

The players were discussing what could be done to raise cash for local charities.

Our Mary came up with the novel idea of the lads doing The Full Monty on the stage of Stornoway Town Hall, as was ably demonstrated in a certain 1990s motion picture of a similar name.

Naughty Mary. Naughty, naughty Mary.

They had better hurry up, though. Councillors Angus Campbell and Angus MacCormack are already revving up the bulldozers waiting for the green light to reduce that grand stage to a pile of firewood.

However, Carloway’s finest thought it was a fine idea and signed a note pledging their rippling talents for the event.

Mary is determined to hold them to it and keeps the fit boys’ scribbles close to her heart. Nice warm place that, a Mhairi.

What happened on Saturday when the boys told their mums, aunts, grannies and girlfriends about their pledge is not yet known. If they actually did tell them.

Oops. I hope I haven’t let the cat out of the bag.

You know, I would not be surprised if some Carloway lads get clouted themselves tonight.

Islands’ think-tank considers culture, crime amid much froth

HAVING spent the festive season on a platform somewhere up near Copenhagen, Mr George Gawk Campbell jetted back to Stornoway to convene a special meeting at the Point Street office of the think-tank he founded, the Special Hosted Electoral Examination Project.

Friday evening’s agenda was colourful, not least because the usual criterion that the house should give its unquestioning support to Gordon Gruamach and the Labour Party was suspended when Mr Campbell realised he would then have no one to talk to.

The main debates centred largely on crime and justice, arguments to retain or abolish the honours system, social housing and the legacies of former prime ministers.

The house fell silent as Donald Dodie Macdonald presented a fascinatingly in-depth analysis of the research he had conducted over five years into how the courts deal with under-25s.

An interesting local aspect of the report by the member for Borve was his view that a framework should be put in place to allow the courts to hand down sentences which build on the current system of community service. In a nutshell, sheriffs must be given new powers to order offenders to cut, lift and take home the peats.

Mr Macdonald, who currently has a pivotal non-research role with Uist Builders, stimulated much discussion when he expanded on his view that the elderly and infirm should be the first to benefit from his proposals. In summary, offenders would be punished and made far too exhausted by exertions on the Pentland Road to smash windows or take drugs. Meanwhile, pensioners get free fuel.

A win-win, he called it as heads nodded. What was there not to like about his plan, he asked.

However, the committee felt there was development work to be done if it was to adopt his proposals and present them to MSPs, as was borne out in the subsequent exchanges on what should be done when an offender refuses to get down and dirty and fling the slabs on to the bank.

The various suggestions that a peat iron could be applied with vigour to the offenders’ behinds suggests more analysis of the options has to be carried out by Mr Macdonald and his research team.

The debate on Steps for a Healthier Hebrides was postponed until members see how Donald Binnie Smith and the other Rudhachs get on next Friday in Farpais Fhallain, the BBC Alba series on weight loss. If they lose their target 48 stones, whatever methods they used will be adopted as committee policy.

Meanwhile, the debate on the honours system led to members debating the scarcity of worthy individuals from the islands who have been recognised for gongs. While many thought it was an utterly discredited system, others thought that while it was in place it should be used by islanders to make nominations – in the interests of balance if little else.

That sparked a scramble for ideas about which ungonged Hebrideans should have been honoured if the current system had been equitable. George Campbell saw the chance to reel off a list of alleged worthies who all just happened to have strong links with the Labour Party.

Onlookers gasped. Eyebrows were yanked aloft. A tumult of predictable outrage ensued. The chaos across the floor of the house was quelled eventually and admirably by Bill Macleod, of Aignish. In seconds, he was on his feet and, as the architect of the fine rebuttal, made a memorable submission to the effect that Mr Campbell was talking complete shoemakers. A sweet moment.

In the culture debate, I was able to inform members that unsigned bands and artists who play in Stornoway are now more likely to get a record deal. And that’s official. Well, almost. There certainly are people, like Paolo Nutini, who played here and then, within months or even weeks, were hitting the big time. Biffy Clyro, Amy Macdonald, The View and, just last year, Mumford and Sons. Look at them now. It’s uncanny. Don’t tell me that’s coincidence, I told them.

Many bands wait for years. But when they do get the call from Innes Morrison and Jori Kim at Stornoway’s own Honcho Promotions, these artists are well on their way.

Nutini, who has sold out the Albert Hall for his gig in April, came with his band to the Woodlands Centre and demanded an almighty fee of £75. Being already known, he demanded extras of course. A few tins of beer for himself and the lads. Their sumptuous accommodation arrangements comprised just kipping down on a floor in a Stornoway flat.

Callum Ian MacMillan interjected to advise he once slept on a floor somewhere during the recording of Sad Day We Left the Croft. The committee fully noted his comments.

Along came the discussion on attempts at the listing of premiers’ legacies. The house generally agreed Baroness Thatcher had left little of cheer behind her in Scotland. The mushrooming of unemployment, the near-total collapse of manufacturing industry and inflation running amok were all marks she left for all to see, it was claimed.

The rowdier members in the house then began to chant Thatcher Thatcher, Milk Snatcher when her earlier record on school milk provision was highlighted. Embarrassed by their own outbursts, the members went quiet and looked at their shoes until Mr Campbell, the unelected chairman, broke the tense silence.

“No, no, no. You are wrong, chentlemen,” he announced, shaking his head so much it looked like it was in danger of falling off.

“It wasn’t just school milk she snatched. She also got rid of Creamola Foam. And Wagon Wheels. If it was not for Tony Blair, there would still be no Wagon Wheels, although they are now smaller and taste of cardboard.”

His words still reverberating in our ears, it was decided it was time to bring the business of the committee to a conclusion. We were all far too worked up to agree the date of the next meeting. So we just drank up and went home.

Do island Christians agree with Pat Robertson? I think we should be told

So how many Western Isles anti-Sunday ferry campaigners are prepared to come out and agree with well-known Christian evangelical Pat Robertson?  Or disagree with him?

The inescapable truth about religion

“I have observed that the world has suffered far less from ignorance than from pretensions to knowledge.
“It is not skeptics or explorers but fanatics and ideologues who menace decency and progress. No agnostic ever burned anyone at the stake or tortured a pagan, a heretic, or an unbeliever.”

Daniel Boorstin

We cannot lavish enough praise on these wonderful older women

EARTH stands hard as iron. Midwinter in these outer islands is bleak and starkly, madly Presbyterian. Even when the weather improves, we have the prospect of a dreadful year ahead.

Some of the most wildly intolerant people in Britain will jet up here to try to destroy the freedoms that our forefathers fought world wars for. They won’t stop at ferries.

The general election could see these islands on a slide from which they will never recover. Wrong on so many levels. Does anybody care? Doesn’t look like it. We will wait and see. Unhappy new year to us all.

So we need a winter warmer. Something to uplift us. And what better toddy to warm the cockles than yon woman MP in Northern Ireland having a fling with a lad 40 years younger than herself?

She claimed to have been inspired by the Rev Ian Paisley yet ended up in the arms of a 19-year-old who only wanted crumpet to sell in his cafe. That could so easily have been me, you know.

I don’t mean that me and Iris Robinson were ever close. And not just because she is a member of what could be Belfast’s very own version of the Free Presbyterians and the Free Church (Continuing) rolled into one. Eek.

What I mean, of course, is that I, too, went through a brief phase of being able to acutely appreciate the charms of the older woman. OK, maybe not four decades older. Good grief.

Many high-profile women have shown they fancy toyboys. The wrinkly songbird Madonna is at it. When she turned 50, she found a 22-year-old toyboy. Oh Jesus, I hear you say. And, yes, that is, indeed, the brave fellow’s name.

Percy Gibson is knocking on a bit at 44, but is stepping out with a woman 32 years older than himself. Her name is Joan Collins. And wasn’t Sharon Stone’s last boyfriend 26 years younger than her?

All these women saw an opportunity and they didn’t worry about what people thought. They grabbed it with both hands.

If successful women who can get what they want seek out these younger men then maybe there are many other ordinary women without such power and access who are secretly longing to dump their bodach and get themselves a boy toy. And probably outwith the Free Church (Continuing), too.

I blame a certain actress for my longings. A deep and lasting impression was made on teenage Hebridean boys in the 1970s by exposure to posh, senior totty. You will understand when I tell you I’m thinking of Margo Leadbetter, the alter ego of the divinely elegant Penelope Keith in the sitcom The Good Life. Now there was a refined lady with standards.

Margo and Jerry

You just knew Ms Keith would not tolerate poor behaviour of any kind, so you wondered constantly if she was about to put you across her knee. When I say you, I mean me. And I was not the only one. She was the supreme matriarch. The lady, the mother, the teacher.

You may kiss a lady, but on the cheek. You may kiss your mother, as often as you like. You may kiss your teacher. Eh? Only on your very last day in that school and preferably with scores of witnesses present. I still have the 1970s guidelines here.

Boring people at the education department are still likely to get a bit overwrought if you dive in for a full-on snog on the lips in the janitor’s cupboard with Miss every time she helps get you through your prelims.

Maybe that official disapproval sparks the fantasy. Having had some wonderfully inspiring female teachers in my time, maybe it is the effect that they had on us lads all rolled up with the image of Margo Leadbetter keeping order among her scatty neighbours and slightly-dim husband that made her that teeny-weeny bit special. Just like my English teacher.

Just a thought. Mrs Mary MacCormack, my former English teacher, who must have been about 30 when she brought James Thurber’s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty alive for me, may read this. So I would just like to point out that I had other female English teachers, too. I wouldn’t like her to think . . . well, you know what I mean. Mind you, all the others were ugly old bats.

In the interests of balance, I should say it is a two-way thing, apparently. Take Catherine Zeta-Jones. Michael Douglas at 65 is something like 25 years older than her. She says she likes the stability an older man gives. Does she mean stability as in lack of movement? Or financial stability? That must be it. The big house. The parties. And the presents.

Talking of presents, my wee cousin is one of these four-year-olds who just loves getting them – so he can play with the box.

Every birthday and Christmas is the same old story. Whether you buy a guitar, a wee car or a £100 talking robot, the present itself is quickly discarded. Soon he is hooting with raucous laughter playing with the box, getting into it, wearing it and generally jumping up and down on it. Ach, what’s the point?

This Christmas, I thought I would be fly. I knew how to give wee cuz exactly what he wanted. I went down to the Events shop in Cromwell Street and bought a box. Yeah, just a plain cardboard box. I then had them put the empty box into a big glittery gift bag and I sent that to the wee blighter to be opened on Christmas Day.

I was round on Saturday. The wee fellow is absolutely delighted. The hugs I got for giving him the best present of the lot.

But he is not actually interested in the box I sent him. No, the wee meaban is having the best fun of all playing with what it came in – the flipping gift bag.

Bruised bits and non-existent babies in slippery SNP winter

NEW Year resolutions are just futile and ridiculous. What is the point of me trying to lose weight, doing something meaningful to reduce my carbon footprint or remembering to wear clean pants every day if I know I will give up and lose interest after just three days of hunger, sore feet and a fortune spent on washing powder?

I mean, we don’t even know what year it is. Should we say twenty ten, like we did for nineteen seventy in the last century? Or two thousand and ten? Or, more correctly, two thousands and ten? Or two ten? Or two oh one oh?

Uh-uh, not that one. Sounds like the title of a rubbish American TV series. Fair enough. Even the BBC’s uniform pronunciation people don’t have a policy on what to say. They can’t even agree among themselves.

Not only do we not know what year it is but we have also lost track of what time of year it is. Last week, the supermarkets began selling Easter eggs and daffodils. When I was in Glasgow in October, they were flogging Christmas trees in Bearsden. The world has gone mad.

Of course, chocolate eggs will sell in December. They could sell body parts if they were made of scrummy milk chocolate and a creamy fondant centre. But they would not be Easter body parts. Because it isn’t Easter.

Thankfully, we still have piles of ice and snow to remind us that it is the middle of winter. Having rescued an old cailleach who went flying down New Street in Stornoway on her backside last week, I went looking for coarse salt to treat the pavements myself. Oisean’s was shut and coming out of the Crofters after another vain inquiry I too slipped and bruised the base of my spine.

Sadly, I can’t sue Lewis Crofters Ltd because Mrs X is being silly about recording the evidence.

“I don’t care how sore it is,” she screamed. “I am not taking photos of your coccyx. Some things I will not do.”

Still, these weeks of permafrost just now will remind us the Scottish Government froze our council tax as another populist move which left us with no protection when Jack Frost came calling. Local authorities with no cash to grit our roads or pavements. Nice one, SNP.

Whether they can afford the legal insurance after the payouts to everyone who fell and fractured their fibulas and femurs in the last fortnight by falling on untreated pavements, even here on Lewis, is another question altogether.

However, as we apply more ointment to our government-inflicted injuries, there is always a goodly measure of uplifting news at the turn of the year.

Like hospitals announcing their first babies. Even the old grump Van Morrison has had a sprog. Aw. His “manager”, a pretty young thing called Gigi is the mother.

Van the grumpy man

Ah, those old superstars of the 1960s. Will she still knead him, will she still bleed him, when he’s 64? Obviously yes. Except no. Because she doesn’t exist and neither does the papoose. The arch-grump says his website was hacked. And his publicist who confirmed the story to the media says he got the “facts” from the website.

George Ivan Morrison, it transpires, is too dour to talk to his own publicist. They communicate via a website. Having had first-hand experience of vainly trying to get a few facts from Morrison before he came up to Stornoway in 2005, I do sympathise. But not with Van the Cantankerous Man who may not, in fact, be as virile as we were led to believe.

I have not made any predictions for 2010 yet. It is such a dodgy business. Last summer, after meeting former work and pensions secretary James Purnell, I confidently foretold he would be the next prime minister. So sure was I of this I suggested if he was not Gordon Gruamach’s successor I would run naked through Stornoway. Six weeks later, Purnell resigned from the Cabinet.

Happily for me, people had either forgotten my pledge or just had no desire at all to see me carrying out my forfeit. I wonder which it was.

This however is the time of year when we sit down and assess what has gone right and what we have made an absolute pig’s ear of. If I was going to make a resolution, which I am not, it would be to warn my dear, impressionable readers about the dangers of casual hanky-panky. It is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Beware the one-night stand. It can go badly wrong. I had one 14 years ago and the bit of stuff I picked up is still here.

Having got used to having her round the place, I am now beginning to despair in case she is about to take off again. Could this be the year she swaps me for a younger stud?

Shopping with her the other day, out of the corner of my eye I noticed she was whispering to one of those glitzy sales ladies in Superdrug.

They were both looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. I reached down because I thought I was flying low. All guys do when that happens. After the ladies simultaneously glanced at me they both collapsed into fits of giggles. Oh oh, something was going on.

When Mrs X stopped to gossip to someone else, I asked the assistant what was so funny as my wife had only said she was going to ask about hair conditioner.

The glamourpuss tossed her yard of blonde hair out of her eyes and over her shoulder and claimed she was only doing her job. She maintained, as it was the start of a new year, she was doling out advice to ladies who need to make certain changes.

“I tell them to say goodbye to dull and limp and hullo to a new and exciting bounce.”

Oh heck. Now I’m really worried.

My head hurts but at least it is not as cold as Jimmy O’s

THE hankies, the socks and the aftershave have now been put away for a year until I can generously present them to someone else next Yuletide. Of course, if you are one of the people who so kindly gave me one of those wonderful gifts then do please rest assured that I am keeping yours and will always treasure it.

I have also decided that it is much safer for me to keep the malt whisky and the port right here. They don’t travel well.

Sadly, a friend of mine is struggling with her present. Just why someone who is a part-time domestic goddess would even want an egg cooker to cook something that takes a mere five minutes to boil in a saucepan beats me.

There are comprehensive instructions on how to get the best out of it. Stick in your egg, press the switch and you have a perfect boiled-type egg in next to no time. Just like an egg in a pan, in fact.

However, I think this contraption will keep it hot until the toast is ready, because the manual says: “Revolve knob to 50 degrees C infinities after finishing cooking, and be OK to enter the state preserving heat.”

This instructions for this handy non-EU product also has a section devoted to health and safety. All you need to know on how to use it safely: “Must put egg cooker on draughty worktable without tinder or exploder. Forbid covering egg cooker with tinder to prevent from firing danger on using.”

Is it guaranteed? The warranty section says, and I quote: “Component and part not having a consumer being able to be maintained, asks deliver a manufactory if the appliance is faulty, or it’s the personnel who keeps the headquarter or similar sole duty in repairmends coming within the appliance.”

That made my head hurt. Like when I was a wee ankle-biter in Great Bernera and enjoyed being sick in a way that wasn’t obvious. Not just feeling off-colour, you understand. Real vomit-hurling ailments were the best.

When it wasn’t unspecific abdomen pain it was outbreaks of diarrhoea or the after-effects of knocking myself senseless by plummeting off the byre roof again. The more dramatic my malady, the more chance that a district nurse would be summoned to dispense pain-relieving codeine, bandages and magic potions for drying out the contents of my lower intestine.

There was one nurse, in particular, who had a knack of putting my head, my tummy and the world to rights. Mrs Marion Macleod, or Mòr Iarsiadair, as we knew her, would stride in rigged out in her crisp, starched uniform and smelling strongly of liniment.

Despite that initial impression of a sergeant major in hair grips, Mòr was a kindly soul who dispensed something else. Sympathy. While everyone wondered if I was trying to skive school, she was a real medical person with a blue badge and everything, who knew I wasn’t putting it on. The nurse said I had a temperature – so there. She also dispensed almighty shocks to my white bits. But that was only because Mòr, like every fine medical person, had really cold hands.

Afterwards, she would take a well-earned cup of Brooke Bond while sitting round the fire with my grandfather. By the time they were on the second cup, they would have discussed the price of wool, who had taken their peats home and my loose stools.

Better be careful what else I say. Bumping into Mòr in the optician’s the other day, she made it quite clear she reads this column and is still keeping tabs on her whiney little former patient.

Last Wednesday, she celebrated her birthday. While I would, of course, never divulge any lady’s tally without her consent, I understand that Mrs Macleod graciously allowed my namesake Coinneach to mention her age on radio, so I shall be brave and hope she would not ban me, either. Happy 95th, a Mhòr.

Meanwhile, trotting along 30 years behind her is another fellow for whom the last year or so was a bit of an eye-opener. A year ago, Jimmy Ogilvie, the laird of Ogilvie Towers (not currently open to the public), had a cataract removed, opening up an entire new world for him. Even with the thick glasses he wore since the age of nine, he could see very little.

That first op changed his life. Now he has had the other eye done.

Eyeing himself up in the mirror recently, Jimmy Two Eyes realised he was in need of a drastic makeover. Those cool, clear eyes, the distinguished nose and the chiselled jawbone structure were all somewhat diminished, he decided, by the unruliness of the thatch on top. In an effort to spare his blushes over the lack of follicles up there, he had always had a few strands that he swept across the summit.

Think Bobby Charlton. It was an impressively long and utterly unmanageable combover.

Now brimming with confidence, he no longer needed the wayward strands to conceal the baldness that the whole world now knows is merely a telltale sign of manliness and virility. Jimmy O knew what he had to do.

At a sombre service performed in her North Beach Street consulting rooms, his dear friend and personal grooming consultant, Jennifer, performed the snip. In a few short, sharp seconds, the combover that had adorned his napper for the last couple of decades and which VisitScotland has listed as a tourist attraction, was consigned to the dustbin of history.

No more shall Jimmy meander up Francis Street avoiding gusts off the Minch that could get under his flap and lift it skywards. No more shall he enter the Lewis or the Carlton and have to quickly run his fingers over his crown to ensure that everything upstairs is horizontal and properly aligned.

And no more shall the rest of us who wink at barmaids see Jimmy and think he is no competition.