Iain Maciver writes …

WHY does Western Isles Council want to take over Stornoway Port Authority (SPA)? Do these hard-working council members really want the extra responsibility of all these piers and gangways just to push through their plan to infill the Bayhead estuary?

Today, I can reveal the answer is no.

There is a far more pressing reason. They want to stage the coup and oust the board because they want to get their hands on the chairman’s chest.

Attractive though it undoubtedly is, it is not actually Iain Macleod’s torso they are after, but a fine piece of furniture that sits in the corner.

Reports reach me from those who made it into the inner sanctum that while it looks like an ordinary wooden trunk, it is far from that.

From the inevitably unclear recollections of visitors, it has a hospitality purpose along the lines of such items in captains’ cabins in days of yore.

This is one special chest. Legend has it that it is topped up regularly on the orders of no less a topper-upper than the Queen.

Between you and me, it is being whispered there is actually an unpublicised Act of Parliament which states that when the number of bottles of fine cognac, Highland Park and Trawler Rum in the chest falls below 10, it has to be replenished.

Otherwise, the harbourmaster will be dragged away to the Tower of London, there to be held in chains at the pleasure of Her Majesty. She might not actually issue such an order against Captain Torquil nowadays. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

In any case, it is going to be much better for the number of councillors who, we fear, have taken to strong drink recently because of the stress of their responsibilities, to have a more-discreet watering hole.

The members’ dining room at the White House council HQ has served them well enough over the years, but there are always officers, kitchen staff and even scruffs from the media tramping in and out.

They sorely need somewhere else in which they can get cosily comatose together and fall over without reporters from Radio nan Gaidheal stepping over them.

They are dangerous because, since the advent of BBC Alba, all these Beeb people are now carrying not just microphones but TV cameras, too.

What they certainly don’t want is any chance of an interview with, say, Convener Alex Macdonald having to be aborted because half-a-dozen befuddled councillors suddenly hove into view, hanging on to each other, hiccupping and wolf-whistling loudly as they all slur in unison: “Shee you, Morag. You’re my besht pal.”

The thought of footage of scenes from a raucous sesh after a long week of committee meetings turning up on It’ll be Alright on the Night fills them with dread.

So SPA HQ Amity House is ideal. If they do manage to slurp the chest dry, it is hidden down on the quay and close enough to the Caley Bar, the Lewis, the Crown or the Star Inn to dispatch council chief executive Malcolm Burr for emergency supplies.

It is not just organisations it has fallen out with which our smart council is taking over. They’re also snapping up property all around Stornoway. With the amount of deals it has done recently, I am amazed it still has money left to empty the bins.

And, now that we have shaken on it, I can exclusively reveal that I, too, have been approached and taken over.

When a smart guy with a parting suddenly appeared on my doorstep the other day, I assumed it was a Mormon. Usually, when confronted by religious callers like them or the Jehovah Witnesses, pressing tracts into my hand and telling me the world is about to end, I just adopt my Extreme Presbyterian Frown.

I then growl that I am an elder in the Free Church (Continuing). It works a treat. Realising I am far more likely than them to have the ear of the big fellow upstairs, they take to the hills. This one didn’t. That was when I figured the well turned-out missionary bore an uncanny resemblance to that selfsame M. Burr Esq.

He had been instructed to check out property close to the town centre. Our house was in the zone laid down by the policy and resources committee and he wanted to make me an offer.

I wondered why. The only notable chest in this house belongs to Mrs X and I doubted whether she would make it available for the enjoyment of thirsty councillors – even on the orders of Her Majesty. Well, maybe for Philip McLean. I’ve never liked the way she looks at him.

Of course, I immediately said “no way” and just slammed the door on the fellow, even if he was a Latter Day Saint.

Sighing to myself, I thought back to my solemn promise all those years ago to Mrs X that we would not move house again for a long time.

Then the missionary lookalike yelled through the letterbox he could go up to £400,000.

Well, I yanked that door back open so fast that part of the poor fellow’s top lip is still embedded in my letter flap.

“Listen,” I said, hoping I hadn’t misheard him, “for that kind of price, I’d throw in the wife as well.”

In a flash, he shook my hand and said: “Done.”

Of course, I will miss Mrs X. After those 14 very, very long years together, it will be a wrench. But I am sure my new housemaid, Britney, will soon get the knack of washing dishes and whatever I ask of her. Being only 19, she’ll need a lot of on-the-job training.

What puzzles me, though, is why the council were so keen to take Mrs X off my hands. After all, I thought the priority for them was to infill the inner harbour at Bayhead.

Mind you, I suppose they could use her for that.