SOMETIMES, the consequences of not taking a minute to ponder about things can be disastrous, and it can be embarrassing. Just ask Chris Moyles. How can someone who rakes in more than £600,000 a year think it’s OK to whine about it on the radio when his pay cheque is a bit late?
Already well past his sell-by date – he is 36 and broadcasting on a station for listeners up to 29 – he was already on thin ice. What was he thinking? Nothing, actually. That was the problem. If only he had taken time to ask himself if his moan was of any interest to anyone apart from himself he might have arrived at a different strategy.
Similarly, it is not much use to wait too long, either. When I put things off, I just get fined by HM Revenue and Customs.
Who do these people think they are, eh? I have been putting cash into their coffers for more years than I care to remember and that is how they treat me. It is too much. They are disrespecting me. I have a good mind to go and live in the Bahamas like all those Tory Party and would-be SNP funders. That’ll teach them.
Oops, sorry about that. All this talk about Moyles, you know. Won’t happen again.
So let’s not put off making a start – sound advice for everyone, not just the Commonwealth Games organisers in Delhi. They should have made a start on the accommodation years ago, but they have promised to have it spick and span by the time Prince Charles gets there.
A very unhurried fellow himself, HRH was on the telly, cheerfully admitting he talks to plants. He added: “I got a lot of flak for a lot of things. I mean, potty this, potty that, loony this, loony that.”
Couldn’t possibly comment, sir. I could end up in the Tower of London.
Maybe the rhubarb growing wild and threatening to envelop Tarbert in Harris is his fault. Has he been there recently? Did he talk to anyone – or any thing?
Still, it’s Charles’s custom and we must respect others’ customs.
When I was in London, I drove through a place called Stamford Hill. I thought I had taken a wrong turn and had ended up in Jerusalem. Everywhere I looked, men and boys dressed in black. They all had on a sort of bowler hat or a skull cap, with twiddly, long sideburns down the side of their faces.
It was like the Sunday of the Stornoway communions used to be – if there had been no barbers.
Where were the women? It was as if they had been ordered to stay at home to make the dinner. Exactly like the Stornoway communions, in fact.
I was pretty much dumbstruck at the sight of all these Orthodox Jews swarming around like penguins. I knew they were Jews, but had no idea there were strongly Jewish areas in some cities. I learned later that there were also Irish areas like Kilburn and a mainly Australian community in Earl’s Court. No, there were no particularly Scottish areas, except a place called Downing Street for a while when Blair was in charge.
I couldn’t help noticing the shop notices in Stamford Hill saying they were selling kosher meat. I had heard the word kosher on TV but assumed it just meant real or genuine. It does, but it’s actually about how animals are slaughtered according to Jewish tradition.
Other religions have their own quirks, too. We hear that our local supermarket giants sell some halal meat and chicken, slaughtered according to Moslem traditions, because Moslems will not eat any meat that has not been butchered the halal way.
Perhaps it’s better not to go into great detail here, but let me just say that it may not be the most humane method of dispatching a lovely little lamb or friendly, shoulder-nuzzling cow – and carried out with a Moslem blessing.
Being virtually vegetarian in my family nowadays, if you don’t count my trips to Ronnie Scott’s – the Stornoway quality fish merchant and not the similarly excellent Soho jazz club – I am not bothered how supermarket meat is prepared and who is blessing it or what the butcher chants when doing the deed.
Maybe it’s just me, but the thought that the most supremely devout and occasionally intolerant members of our own cuddly, hardline Churches, like the Free Church (Continuing), are tucking into feasts of rack of lamb or coq au vin which have been blessed according to a holy Moslem ritual is ever so slightly ironic.
Anyone think that some of the faithful in the Free Churches may even now be considering changing their buying habits? Yeah, me too. It could all be too much for them.
Maybe this is all good news for Stornoway’s quality meat purveyors, like Billy France up in Westview Terrace or Macleod & Macleod down in Church Street. I don’t think they sell any halal meat. Haven’t noticed any signs in their windows, anyway.
I am not sure about Willie John’s in Francis Street, though. Who knows what that Pinta gets up to in the back shop?
I must take the time myself to say thank you to those who rushed to defend me against the brickbats of Sula Sgeir exile Donald S Murray in this newspaper last week. He should have stopped and pondered first.
One of our esteemed taxi drivers was all set to head off to Shetland to sort him out on my behalf. As his granny was from the correct side of the Bernera bridge, he volunteered to put Murray right about a few things. No, let’s not rush. Our time will come. Soon.
A high five also to Anne Mackenzie, who sent me a card to tell me how “incensed” she was at his attack. There was just no need for him to mention my long johns, or lack of them, she declared. As you say, Anne, that was just below the belt.
