GOOD on our new and fearless legislator Nick Clegg, I say. He is determined to get rid of all these old laws that are still on the statute book since the Whigs were in power.
For instance, did you know you could still be locked up for treason if you put a stamp bearing the Queen’s head upside down on an envelope? I so want to do that now, before it is repealed.
Not all the daft ones are old, though. It was just four years ago that the UK’s Tax Avoidance Schemes Regulations came in. These have since been legally tested and what they actually mean is that it is illegal not to tell the taxman anything you don’t want him to know. However, you don’t have to tell him anything you don’t mind him knowing. Yeah, right.
According to the letter of the law, the head of any dead whale found anywhere between Muckle Flugga and the Scilly Isles is legally the property of the King. But the tail belongs to the Queen, as she apparently has an ongoing need for whalebones for her corsets. Of course she does.
Other countries are just as barmy as us. In France, it is against the law to call a pig Napoleon. But is it OK to call it Monsieur Sarkozy? Apparently, yes. And bankers who get bonuses for making a pig’s ear of their businesses and politicians who fiddle their expenses? Yep, that’s fine. Fine, good law, that.
In Ohio, the legislators also had too much time on their hands. It is against the law there to get a fish drunk and women must not wear patent-leather shoes, because they are shiny and men might see their underwear. Is that really true? I might get myself a pair and start sticking my foot out.
During my arduous researches on your behalf, dear reader, I found that a lot of these old laws still on the statute book are to do with relieving oneself. A driver who feels compelled to go can do so only if he aims for his rear wheel and keeps his right hand on his carriage. This was after pressure from operators of Hackney cabs who complained that they had to do long shifts without being near to a wee boys’ room.
I can’t say that I have ever seen any of the cabbies here in Stornoway, like Neil Macneil, Jim McCulloch or Norman Maclean, sneaking out to splash their back hubcaps on the rank across from the Crown Hotel. Why not, though? Go on, guys. Give it a try. See what happens.
But if Effie in the Crown sees you, please don’t tell her I told you to. Deal?
And did you know that a pregnant woman can relieve herself anywhere she wants? Maybe that’s not really so daft. Actually, it says that a bursting mum-to-be can even ask a policeman for his helmet and use it for a potty. Does that apply to peaked hats as worn by Northern Constabulary, I wonder? I suppose it must do.
You know, when I think about it, I have never seen my mate Sergeant Alex Macdonald or any of his colleagues from Stornoway nick hanging around near the maternity ward of Western Isles Hospital. Now we know why. They don’t want to have to explain that particular wardrobe malfunction back at the station.
You have to feel sorry for the Lord Mayor of Leicester, whose trousers fell down when he was addressing some kids in a library the other day. His wardrobe whoopsy happened because the poor guy is losing weight. He’s not a clown. Leave him alone.
My own wardrobe malfunction actually involved someone else’s clothing. It was when I was at the health board and had a mad dash one morning to get to work.
As often happened, there were no piles of freshly-ironed items in the sock drawer, so I just grabbed a hanky from the basket of washing waiting to be ironed. Mrs X doesn’t always keep on top of the ironing. Poor thing, she is getting on a bit now.
Later that morning, I was at a meeting about bird flu. That talk of diseases from wee lovely birdies brought on a bout of the sniffle tickles. You know what it’s like; you think you are going to sneeze, but it doesn’t quite happen. So you have to be prepared.
Reaching into my pocket for the clean, if not quite crisply ironed, hanky, I held it at my nose in case an explosion was imminent.
Dr Sheila Scott, the director of public health, was sitting opposite me. Suddenly, she seemed to be squinting at my hanky. Silly woman, I thought. She should concentrate on saving the world from these flocks of bug-ridden blackbirds and blue tits.
That’s when I noticed my hanky seemed to have an elasticated border. Strange, I thought. Oh well, whatever will they think of next?
Hold on. This can’t be a hanky, I thought. I was right. It wasn’t.
We had all been sat round this table discussing the possible end of civilisation as we knew it while all the time I was blatantly and unashamedly fingering a pair of Mrs X’s unmentionables. In my early-morning haste, I had plucked from the washing basket not a hanky but a pair of my wife’s skimpy drawers. And if you know Mrs X you will also know that last bit about them being skimpy is just a barefaced lie.
As if that was not bad enough, at that point I had spent five minutes holding this triumph of snug-fitting cotton, elastication and tiny ribbons up to my nostrils.
Would anyone have believed me if I had even tried to explain? No, so I never did.
And that is why I have never been able to look Dr Scott, or anyone else who was round that table, in the eye ever since.
