Dr Who’s in Harris Tweed but what is Gaelic for Dalek?

JUST how far will sometimes-scary Doctor Who take its tie-up with Harris Tweed? Now that we know the new doctor will be wearing a fine 1960s-type dogtooth check jacket in the next series, it could open the door for the time lord to take to the hills where once the wool which went into his clobber was attached firmly to a subsidised sheep.

Whatever next for the longest-running sci-fi series in the world? Daleks in Dalmore? Cybermen in Shulishader? The Master in Melbost Borve? A Tardis in Tolsta?

Recently, I was summoned over to the Carloway Mill by the new boss to discuss a bit of business. Oh, here we go, I thought, another long confab about market trends in Japanese textiles with a whiskery, whisky-stained mill manager in a tweed rig-out, an unmatching tweed tie, a crumpled trilby and, judging by his lack of comfort, tweed Y-fronts as well.

I’d better wear mine, I thought. Wouldn’t want to look out of place, you know.

The door of the mill was open, so in I trundled. Try as I might, I couldn’t find any managerial types with prickly bristles on their chin or anywhere else. Then, in one of the offices, I found a secretary. She was on the phone.

A tall, expressive damsel, she gestured in my direction when she noticed me. Eh? Did she want me to wait two minutes or was she telling me to get out of her office right now? I wasn’t entirely sure from that particular gesture.

The “secretary” turned out to be designer Ann MacCallum, whom I have known since her days in charge of the Pick ’n’ Mix in Woolies. She was now in charge of the mill, she said.

Yeah, right. That was a statement that was so wrong on so many levels. If she was the boss of the tweed mill, why was she not dressed like a tweed mill boss?

Traditionally, they are walking, talking advertisements for their own products, showing off various eye-catching creations in classic herringbone and check.

I didn’t think Ann was wearing any coarse materials down below because she was not walking funny in the way that world-weary sufferers of the dreaded double-width itch do. Just think of Rae Mackenzie. That’s all I’m saying.

And, apparently, she is not a man. Eh? Was I expected to believe a mill manager would turn up to oversee dyeing, drying, spinning and stuff in lippy and a dollop of mascara?

Yes, she barked. She was the guv’nor. Now did I want this work or not?

Yes, ma’am. No further questions. Oh heck, me and my mouth.

The MP came out with a good one when he said endorsement by Doctor Who showed that Harris Tweed was timeless. It could be worn at any time and by any age. And in any galaxy.

Now we have all these inquiries from people wanting to know about Doctor Who and his tweed. I’d no idea the new doctor had gone all tweedy.

I knew he whizzed around at warp speed – but weft and warp? I was thinking back to Patrick Troughton and Tom Baker. Did they have suits of clò mór? Or the other, more-recent, Scottish son of the manse with a name like a brewery? No, didn’t think so.

The new time traveller is one Matt Smith. He looks far too young to be a time lord but, then again, I was scared witless by the adventures of the suave William Hartnell – and he retired in 1966.

Meanwhile, after that exciting Budget, we hear Alistair Darling has no intention of retiring if Labour wins. Yeah, had me on the edge of my seat for hours. Left me completely flummoxed, so I’ve been listening to the analysis by people who know about these things. Their conclusion is cuts, freezes and more cuts.

One enlightening radio debate about the plans set out by the chancellor was on Friday. I think Nicola Sturgeon, Douglas Alexander, Annabel Goldie and, maybe, Jo Swinson took part. Also chucking in his two-penn’orth was the Westminster-based hack from Point, Torcuil Crichton.

He was not that hard on the second lord of the Treasury until he started on about his presentational style. Torcuil alleged Mr Darling was as boring as a CalMac ferry skipper – as dull and safe as that.

Sheesh. I take it from that our Torcuil now has a permanent air travel warrant to whizz back and fore from Stornoway Airport.

There is no way that he can chance his arm travelling in the care of these lovely, caring gentlemen who steer us all so gallantly around the rocks of life. Hey, I sail regularly and am anxious to avoid any mid-Minch trauma.

I had enough trauma on Saturday night. It was all because of my Mrs X’s sister Joey, you see. She is getting married next week and she and the girls were out on her hen night. That was surprising in itself, as she is normally such a quiet and reserved type that I didn’t think she would go in for that sort of thing.

How wrong I was.

She turned up at the County Hotel wearing what I can describe only as a technological innovation. This long, electronic tube thing was wrapped around the whole top of her body. As I called her and wished her an enjoyable evening through the window of the car on Francis Street, Joey turned towards me and this contraption she was wearing suddenly illuminated. In the evening gloom it looked ferociously bright. Well, I was out of the car in a second and rushing for the fire extinguisher in the boot. I thought Joey’s boobs had caught fire.

Still, maybe it is a good omen for Aneas if his new wife can turn on the fires of passion just by the flick of a switch.

Then she can give her sister tips.