Could it be that I may have found Liam Fox’s adviser singing at that wet Mod?

Rumours are very much part of the Royal National Mod. At the very least, a good Mod has a rumour of a high-level ding-dong about the future of Gaelic, a royal visitor and claims that the organisers have banned the phrase Whisky Olympics. Of course, these are just rumours and nothing ever comes of them.
However, throughout Mod week there were whispers that Adam Werrity was up for it. A taxi driver had supposedly dropped off Dr Liam Fox’s constant companion in a kilt at Macneil’s and was in there with George Gawk, the North Sea crofter.

The best man turned worst man, for the career of the defence secretary anyway, was also supposedly seen propping up the bar at the Wild West Beer Festival in Tong and I had calls saying he was boogieing in the Clachan Bar until 6am.
Of course, always ready to bring you the latest happenings in Stornoway, I had to rush off to check each and every sighting but not be recognised myself. With my trusty kilt and the hairiest sporran to ever grace a Mod, off I went into the pouring rain.

Rushing into Macneil’s, everything was order. Very civilised the patrons were, all nodding politely as they sipped their mineral water. Hmm, I’m sure I saw one or two Press and Journal types there nursing an uisge beatha or two – without the beatha, of course. Anything else appearing on their expenses claim was “not dependent on transactional behaviour”, as a former government minister so eloquently put it.

Then I found George Gawk in the corner pretending there was no one with him. I’m wise to him now and it wasn’t long before I spotted a guy in a kilt with all the fresh features that had graced our scandal-filled newspapers for the previous couple of weeks. “Ah, Mr Werritty, I presume,” I said, puffing myself up as if I had just come across a white explorer on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. “I’ve been looking for you.” Terror flashed across his face, before he mumbled something about how he needed to sing. “Yes indeed. Unburden yourself to me. Ready when you are,” I said, whipping out my notebook to catch for posterity his account of what he did to heap scadal upon his head.

However, he took advantage of me rummaging for a pencil in my shaggy sporran. When I looked up he’d vanished. Turning to George Gawk, I asked if he’d seen the guy in the kilt I’d been speaking to. He nodded to the stage.
The bekilted vocalist did look a teeny bit like Werrity I suppose, but Calum Alex MacMillan, a well-kent Gaelic crooner, who was up there belting out a ballad, is not likely to have jetted around the globe with our country’s former defence secretary, is he? Stop it, George. Now you’re winding me up.

Poor Gawk. He’s got a lot on his mind. He has seen that story in the papers about the oil platform in the North Sea that a Norwegian oil company put up for sale. They are flogging it like it was a bungalow noting it is well-kept with 20 bedrooms, fantastic sea views and space for a helicopter. No way, George wouldn’t be interested even if the starting bid they are looking for, at about 13p, costs less than the bag of smokey bacon crisps he kindly bought me. George is just a crofter who happens to work in the North Sea, after all.

Ah, he corrects me, we non-crofters have no idea. There are times in all stockholders’ lives, he tells me, when it is necessary to separate the rams from the ewes. You have to put the rams somewhere secure where they cannot jump a fence. Well, I suppose but … No buts about it, he insisted, grimly. An oilrig in the North Sea would be ideal. Where else would he be able to put a lot of rams and be able to check the boy Blackfaces with a low chopper fly-by as he went back and fore to work? He could put loads of other crofters’ rams out there too and charge a hefty rent too with his cast-iron guarantee that even the fence jumpers wouldn’t get to the maiden ewes.

Still reeling from how entreprenurial the Gawk had become, I had to check out to our newest island festival celebrating the best of, well, what we do best. Having a pint. Sidling up to these thirsty guys at the bar in Tong Hall quaffing Organic Yellowhammer, Berserker and a delightful bevvy called Skullsplitter while trying to work out if they had noses like the one in Fox’s groom and best man photos wasn’t easy. They thought I was acting weird.

Finally, and desperate to change my appearance again, I plonked the hairy thingummyjig on my head to make me look younger and slunk into the Clachan for the all-nighter into Saturday morning. No Werrity but the woman singer in there, who looked a bit like Mrs X but when she was slim, kept winking at me.
Ach, I’ve still got it.

I wasn’t interested though. Better to rush home to my beloved. Don’t know why I bothered because when I got in, there was a note saying: “Don’t wait up. I’m entertaining Big Calum Clachan until morning. X (Mrs).” See if I find out that Adam Werrity is using the name Calum Clachan, there’s going to be trouble. I don’t care how big he is.