Iain Maciver writes …

Entries categorized as ‘Popular culture’

Don’t hit John Macleod – a heartfelt plea

March 8, 2010 · 1 Comment

People are calling me up to say they want to give the Daily Mail windbag John Macleod a black eye for his nauseating attack on local people on Hebrides News last Saturday. Where does he drink? they ask. In a trough somewhere, I reply.

No, please don’t hit him. There is nothing a smarmy, self-centred, loutish product of a family of undeserved privilege like him would like more than to snigger about the great unwashed trying to put one on him. He would call them heathens.

So if you do spot him in town, often lurking under a hilariously ill-fitting Glengarry, ask him to his face why he is such a coward and a poisonous ratbag, by all means. For all his wonderful skill as a wordsmith, this particularly cruel sham-Christian is reduced to a flustered  nervous mess when someone corners him. Insist he looks you straight in the eye. People who know him well all tell you the same thing – he is a coward and finds it impossible to do. Go on. Try it – for a laugh. You might even enjoy it.

The coward has all the social skills of a rattlesnake.

Some irresponsible people have also suggested that I email them a photo of John Macleod so that they would know who to go looking for at the back of Lava’s Garage or wherever the Glengarry hangs out nowadays.

I will do no such thing. I would never dream of doing anything like that.  So just calm down, the lot of you.

By the way, are there any readers on here who are good at computers? For some reason, I am finding that a file that I have been trying to delete just keeps coming back. It just refuses to die. It is multiplying with my every click. Maybe someone can suggest a fix for this.

See that. It has just done it again. I clicked the mouse to delete another one and, hey presto,  another one has just appeared over there. I  probably have no need to worry. It is just a really daft photo and I doubt if it will actually come out on the published page.

Categories: Isle of Harris · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · Uist · Western Isles · politics · religion
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Isn’t it funny how people get attached to their appliances?

February 9, 2010 · Leave a Comment

SHE will kill me if I even hint at her name, but I cannot but recount how someone I know became very attached recently to one of her household appliances.

This kindly soul had been feeling the occasional twinge of arthritis in her legs and was concerned about it. She tried the various NHS prescriptions, but with only partial success. Then her thoughts began to turn to the less conventional treatments that we hear about sometimes and which are always pooh-poohed by the medical establishment.

Worth a try, she reckoned. Just see if they make any difference. She heard other sufferers say magnetic bracelets had helped them.

Doctors and scientists gasp at these claims because, under laboratory conditions at any rate, they can find no proof of any benefit. They sneer, claiming that it is all in the mind. Funny, then, that one of these men of science who had written it was all bunkum was found, some years later, to be wearing one of the bracelets himself. Hmm.

So my friend wondered if she should explore this unproven alternative therapy to see if it could have any effect on those annoying pangs in her legs. The solution recommended to her was a larger affair than a bracelet. A sizeable magnet was contained in this surgical support affair which was then wrapped around her knee.

She had it fitted last week. Hoping for quick relief, she then set about making the tea for the family after putting a mixed load in the washing machine. The machine was slooshing away nicely to itself. She got bread from the bin in the cupboard above it and turned for the teapot, but couldn’t. She tried to turn the other way but couldn’t do that, either. She was stuck.

Her right leg had stopped working. She could feel it fine, but it was strangely immobile. Oh-oh. Panic. Was she having some kind of attack? In fact, the whole right side of her body just seemed frozen to the spot. She could move her left leg, but she just didn’t have the strength to move over to the chair. She couldn’t bend down and she couldn’t reach up. What terrible ailment had crippled her?

Thankfully, she wasn’t in pain and knew her husband would be home soon. So she relaxed a bit. Then she realised she was actually stuck fast to the washing machine. Like a magnet. A magnet? It dawned on her. Yes, it was the magnetic knee wrap for her rheumatism that was keeping her thigh firmly attached to the appliance. It was really stuck fast.

Suddenly, a click. The washing machine began its spin cycle. Her efforts to extricate herself must have somehow dislodged the washing machine from its mounting, so, when the spinning began, the whole machine began to really vibrate and jump up and down. And, because she was firmly clamped to it, so did she.

She couldn’t even reach the socket to put it off and, when she tried to reach behind her for the off switch, she only managed to press something which made it go faster.

It rattled and rolled as it gave the hankies, dishcloths and frilly underthings inside it a good going over, leaving my friend all shook up. In some of these modern machines, the spin is powerful and goes on for ages. This was one of them.

By the time the throbbing machine finally slowed and began the rinse, the heavy vibration had bedraggled her with sheer exhaustion. That is not good for a woman of her age.

It’s not funny. It’s really not. Well, it is a bit, but it wasn’t for her at the time. Now fully recovered, and demagnetised, she has been playing down her own hour of trauma. She can now manage a weak smile when people say they always knew she had a magnetic personality. They also ask if the machine was made by Toyota. Was the accelerator jammed? People can be so cruel.

It is also cruel that Valentine’s Day is upon us again. It can’t be a year since we last suffered. Do married women of a certain age still expect something on February 14? There has to be a cut-off point when we men can just down tools and be allowed to stop trying to impress. It’s not as if some of us even hooked up with them because we were incurable romantics or even because we looked much better than the back end of Bus na Comhairle.

Our womenfolk obviously thought we had other endearing attributes: a sizzling personality, a vulnerability that brought out the mother in them, or even a look so glaikit that they felt they had to take us indoors out of harm’s way. Whatever it was, I’m cool with it.

But I’d better not chance it. So I’ve got till the weekend to try to come up with something that she will think delightful and precious – in other words, a complete waste of time and money – so she will consider me to have been inspired and thoughtful. Great.

A couple of years ago, I forgot. As the day wore on, the present Mrs Maciver became morose and grumpy. I had no idea what was going on. By teatime, she was slamming doors and serving up chicken goujons one step away from being charcoal. Still nothing dawned on me.

That night, there was something on the news about the record sales of Valentine cards. The penny dropped. Oops, I thought. “Right, I’m off, you uncaring old swine,” she obviously thought.

She did what she always does when she is agitated with me. She drove off in first gear, smoke trailing behind her. She is quite a sight when she does that; stooring off round the corner, engine roaring in a cloud of indignant exhaust fumes and, because she forgets to change gear, she doesn’t manage to get past 10mph.

Hey. I’ve just had an idea. Maybe I should get her a Toyota.

Categories: Isle of Harris · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · Western Isles · health
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Rock and Chips – the comedy drama that wasn’t

January 26, 2010 · 2 Comments

If one-off drama Rock and Chips was indeed written by the wonderful John Sullivan, who penned Only Fools and Horses, then he has had his funny bone surgically removed. The BBC should never have flagged up this shabby excuse for resurrecting a dead horse as a so-called comedy drama.

Light drama, smutty drama, predictable drama, all that. But comedy drama, never.
Just four gags I counted which made it past the final edit to delight us in this long-awaited time-shifted prequel to Only Fools, which just a few months ago was billed more-accurately as Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘n’ Chips. Two lines were good, one was OK and one only just titterworthy.

Funny that the BBC, in the eerie must-be-seen-to-be-cautious post-Jonathan Ross climate, is so jittery about the word sex in the title yet still gives viewers no hint of the avalanche of heavy trouser-popping smut in the show itself. The sole short warning ahead of the programme was about strong language.

When Freddie Robdal, played by a sour-faced rather than plonkerish Nicholas Lyndhurst, told of his mate who died in the Nestlé factory when he fell in the vat of coffee, Joan Trotter said it was an awful way to go. “Oh no,” says Freddie. “It was instant.”  Actually, that was probably the only good line.

James Buckley plays a fine Cockney wideboy but, sadly, not as Delboy Trotter. Well, he looks nothing like him for a start. Having a wide mouth and saying ‘awight’ with a semi-swagger is not enough. Not Buckley’s fault, of course. He was miscast.

The other regulars, Boycie, Trigger, Denzil and Jumbo Mills were better. Their lines though were rarely short of dire. The pressure to make Trigger say something stupid resulted in blank stares in our house. Just didn’t work. For any of us. Yeah, just stupid.

However, getting Calum MacNab as Roy Slater was a rare inspiration by someone. I could actually look at him and see the sleazy ex-cop who made Del and his pals’ lives hell in later years.

The numerous scenes with Del’s mum and the cinema manager Ernie Rayner with the disgusting habits, played suitably nauseatingly by Robert Daws, were just an excuse for pure, unadulterated and inexcusable smut. Come on Sullivan. Come on, Jay Hunt, controller of BBC1.

That late-night Channel Four and arthouse-style filth was not what we expected from a spin-off of OFAH, which grannies and teenagers alike could get belly-laughs from. Just a thought. How many young kids were allowed to stay up late because it was sold as being from the same stable as its classic predecessor – or successor – and were heartlessly exposed to that load of cringeworthy old dirty-old-man tosh from the foulest sewers of saff London?

If Hunt, who commissioned it, tries to defend it that will surely mean she is already spending hundreds of thousands of our cash on buying another one. If she doesn’t, then, as I speak, it will surely be laid to rest, alongside what’s left of Grandpa’s ashes, somewhere down the Old Kent Road.

Categories: Popular culture · TV · reviews
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Why I predict some lads could get bashed in Carloway tonight

January 25, 2010 · Leave a Comment

SO, HER Majesty is forking out a cool £300,000 to hire the former MV Hebrides, which plied between Tarbert, Uig and Lochmaddy until 1985. Summer isn’t summer without the royals coming up the west coast for picnics in sneaky, out-of-the-way places. I promise to leave her alone this year, but I did sort of accidentally on purpose bump into her and her family one summer.

I was on Barra. Looking out from the Craigard Hotel, I saw a familiar bow and masts in the distance. It was the Royal Yacht Britannia.

The Barrachs were unexcited. Yeah, the Royal Family would be taking their smoked salmon sandwiches and caviar on the nearby uninhabited island of Sandray. They did it every year.

Well, I wasn’t going to hire a boat to go to Sandray to get a wee photo. Naw, not worth it. Then a fisherman told me the royal tenders had actually come into the wee beach over the hill on Vatersay. Ah, could be worth a wee toddle round there. Enlisting the help of my mate Margaret Ann Macintyre, from Northbay, as assistant photographer, we set off, crossed the causeway and began to climb that hill.

Margaret Ann was fit as a deer, but I was pewchled. Suddenly, there they were. As we peered over the summit, the royals were standing around as the footmen tidied up, taking the tablecloths and crates of empty bottles back to the boats. Keen to impress Margaret Ann with my outdoor skills, I crawled down on my belly, SAS-style, to get closer to clinch that shot which would propel me to national stardom when it appeared on the cover of Hello!

Even on my belly I am not what you would call low-profile. Some eagle-eyed security men spotted me. They were fly. They set off, some going east, some west and I realised they were trying to get behind me and cut me off. The goons’ pincer movement did not work. I bravely stood up and ran – back into Vatersay. Yanking Margaret Ann along behind me, I made it back to the car about 10 times faster than I went up.

Racing through Vatersay in first gear – well, you can’t remember to do everything – I could see the minders on the hill scratching their heads. They would have had powerful long lenses. My photo is probably on a wanted list in the palace. Maybe I should keep out of their sights for a bit.

There are, however, many interesting seaside places the royals could see here. Like Carloway. Tucked in between Breasclete and Shawbost, many thousands go each year to see the early social housing scheme at Gearrannan blackhouses. The Broch, an example of the earliest secure flats, is also a famed landmark.

As well as having names which suggest the Vikings were there for some time, Carloway saw bloody battles over cattle raiding. An Uigeach called Dòmhnall Cam MacDhùghaill trapped cattle-raiding Morrison scoundrels from Ness, herded them into the Broch and choked them by tossing in clumps of burning heather.

Let me just stress that the cove in question was from Uig itself, not Great Bernera. The last thing I want is a ruffian from Skigersta turning up here at all hours with a fiery torch in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other, muttering that he is going to right some ancient wrongs perpetrated by my ancestors.

Some of the bloodiest battles in Carloway were in the 1970s. The Carloway Hall was then the scene of at least a fortnightly scrap of epic proportions.

This was where rugged Carlowegians would square up to and comprehensively thump Shawbostonians, Nisich and even us Berneranians who happened to look twice at any of the giggly maidens of Pentland Drive, Kirvick or even as far away as Garynahine. They guarded them as jealously as their flocks of blackfaces.

After exhausting themselves with a bout of violent blood-letting, the Carloway pugilists would then shake on it. Out would come the half-bottle and everyone would be best pals.

Then, as the cockles warmed and strength returned, the Carloway guys would accuse the visitors of swigging too much and not leaving them any. They would proceed to knock seven bells out of them again. Ah, happy days.

I had better not go into too much detail. Some of the worst ones hold top jobs in national government, industry, quangos and, of course, Western Isles Council.

It’s all changed now. They are a very civilised lot over there. I saw some of the lads from the Carloway football team on Friday in one of downtown Stornoway’s more upmarket social venues. The lads were on good form and Mary Maclean, she of the health board’s healthy eating project but in an altogether different role that evening, tells me the banter was excellent.

The players were discussing what could be done to raise cash for local charities.

Our Mary came up with the novel idea of the lads doing The Full Monty on the stage of Stornoway Town Hall, as was ably demonstrated in a certain 1990s motion picture of a similar name.

Naughty Mary. Naughty, naughty Mary.

They had better hurry up, though. Councillors Angus Campbell and Angus MacCormack are already revving up the bulldozers waiting for the green light to reduce that grand stage to a pile of firewood.

However, Carloway’s finest thought it was a fine idea and signed a note pledging their rippling talents for the event.

Mary is determined to hold them to it and keeps the fit boys’ scribbles close to her heart. Nice warm place that, a Mhairi.

What happened on Saturday when the boys told their mums, aunts, grannies and girlfriends about their pledge is not yet known. If they actually did tell them.

Oops. I hope I haven’t let the cat out of the bag.

You know, I would not be surprised if some Carloway lads get clouted themselves tonight.

Categories: Barra · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Western Isles
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Islands’ think-tank considers culture, crime amid much froth

January 19, 2010 · Leave a Comment

HAVING spent the festive season on a platform somewhere up near Copenhagen, Mr George Gawk Campbell jetted back to Stornoway to convene a special meeting at the Point Street office of the think-tank he founded, the Special Hosted Electoral Examination Project.

Friday evening’s agenda was colourful, not least because the usual criterion that the house should give its unquestioning support to Gordon Gruamach and the Labour Party was suspended when Mr Campbell realised he would then have no one to talk to.

The main debates centred largely on crime and justice, arguments to retain or abolish the honours system, social housing and the legacies of former prime ministers.

The house fell silent as Donald Dodie Macdonald presented a fascinatingly in-depth analysis of the research he had conducted over five years into how the courts deal with under-25s.

An interesting local aspect of the report by the member for Borve was his view that a framework should be put in place to allow the courts to hand down sentences which build on the current system of community service. In a nutshell, sheriffs must be given new powers to order offenders to cut, lift and take home the peats.

Mr Macdonald, who currently has a pivotal non-research role with Uist Builders, stimulated much discussion when he expanded on his view that the elderly and infirm should be the first to benefit from his proposals. In summary, offenders would be punished and made far too exhausted by exertions on the Pentland Road to smash windows or take drugs. Meanwhile, pensioners get free fuel.

A win-win, he called it as heads nodded. What was there not to like about his plan, he asked.

However, the committee felt there was development work to be done if it was to adopt his proposals and present them to MSPs, as was borne out in the subsequent exchanges on what should be done when an offender refuses to get down and dirty and fling the slabs on to the bank.

The various suggestions that a peat iron could be applied with vigour to the offenders’ behinds suggests more analysis of the options has to be carried out by Mr Macdonald and his research team.

The debate on Steps for a Healthier Hebrides was postponed until members see how Donald Binnie Smith and the other Rudhachs get on next Friday in Farpais Fhallain, the BBC Alba series on weight loss. If they lose their target 48 stones, whatever methods they used will be adopted as committee policy.

Meanwhile, the debate on the honours system led to members debating the scarcity of worthy individuals from the islands who have been recognised for gongs. While many thought it was an utterly discredited system, others thought that while it was in place it should be used by islanders to make nominations – in the interests of balance if little else.

That sparked a scramble for ideas about which ungonged Hebrideans should have been honoured if the current system had been equitable. George Campbell saw the chance to reel off a list of alleged worthies who all just happened to have strong links with the Labour Party.

Onlookers gasped. Eyebrows were yanked aloft. A tumult of predictable outrage ensued. The chaos across the floor of the house was quelled eventually and admirably by Bill Macleod, of Aignish. In seconds, he was on his feet and, as the architect of the fine rebuttal, made a memorable submission to the effect that Mr Campbell was talking complete shoemakers. A sweet moment.

In the culture debate, I was able to inform members that unsigned bands and artists who play in Stornoway are now more likely to get a record deal. And that’s official. Well, almost. There certainly are people, like Paolo Nutini, who played here and then, within months or even weeks, were hitting the big time. Biffy Clyro, Amy Macdonald, The View and, just last year, Mumford and Sons. Look at them now. It’s uncanny. Don’t tell me that’s coincidence, I told them.

Many bands wait for years. But when they do get the call from Innes Morrison and Jori Kim at Stornoway’s own Honcho Promotions, these artists are well on their way.

Nutini, who has sold out the Albert Hall for his gig in April, came with his band to the Woodlands Centre and demanded an almighty fee of £75. Being already known, he demanded extras of course. A few tins of beer for himself and the lads. Their sumptuous accommodation arrangements comprised just kipping down on a floor in a Stornoway flat.

Callum Ian MacMillan interjected to advise he once slept on a floor somewhere during the recording of Sad Day We Left the Croft. The committee fully noted his comments.

Along came the discussion on attempts at the listing of premiers’ legacies. The house generally agreed Baroness Thatcher had left little of cheer behind her in Scotland. The mushrooming of unemployment, the near-total collapse of manufacturing industry and inflation running amok were all marks she left for all to see, it was claimed.

The rowdier members in the house then began to chant Thatcher Thatcher, Milk Snatcher when her earlier record on school milk provision was highlighted. Embarrassed by their own outbursts, the members went quiet and looked at their shoes until Mr Campbell, the unelected chairman, broke the tense silence.

“No, no, no. You are wrong, chentlemen,” he announced, shaking his head so much it looked like it was in danger of falling off.

“It wasn’t just school milk she snatched. She also got rid of Creamola Foam. And Wagon Wheels. If it was not for Tony Blair, there would still be no Wagon Wheels, although they are now smaller and taste of cardboard.”

His words still reverberating in our ears, it was decided it was time to bring the business of the committee to a conclusion. We were all far too worked up to agree the date of the next meeting. So we just drank up and went home.

Categories: Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Radio · Scotland · Stornoway · Western Isles
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Why does everyone look so glum at the Royal National Mod?

October 19, 2009 · Leave a Comment

OUR autumn holiday would be at the Mod. The family would have a great time going round the attractions of Oban while my week would pass with a warm and fuzzy feeling, meeting warm and fuzzy people I had not seen since I was last at the festival of all things heedrum-ho and enjoying beverages that would make me even more warm and fuzzy.

Sadly, someone else had other ideas. She treated my plan like islanders will treat an anti-Sunday ferries candidate – laughing at it, rubbishing it and then completely ignoring it. Sternly instructed we were going to the city of Glasgow, I thought how I love this marriage thing; sharing ideas and making compromises so we all get what we want.

A backup plan was called for. I pretended to misunderstand Seonag, the satnav. While loudly bursting into a chorus of A Pheigi a Ghraidh just as Seonag was telling me to enter a roundabout and take the first exit I sort of deliberately, but accidentally, took a wrong turn at Ballachulish.

This strange urge to sing loudly came intermittently – like when she began to quiz me on whether or not we were on the right road to Glasgow. Somehow, inexplicably, we ended up in a place called Oban where, gosh, we found a festival called the Royal National Mod in full swing. Dashed satnavs – can’t trust them.

It was meant to be, I suggested, as she announced we were staying for precisely 15 minutes. Then she met someone from Plasterfield. Yab, yab, yab. No one can talk like people from Plasterfield – especially to each other. So I was able to make my escape and dash upstairs to the Skipinnish Ceilidh Lounge.

Sadly, this imposing seafront venue has windows so large that she spotted me from across the road before I could even gulp my first dram.

Dragged by my aural appendage back to the car, I was ordered to drive and aim the car at the dear, green place by the Clyde unless I wanted to hear everything from now on in mono. Rumbled, I had no option but to head for Glasgow, a city often said to be ahead of its time. That’ll be why every second lamppost already carries adverts for “real” Christmas trees.

So, for a few days, I had to keep up with the Mod, courtesy of Tony Kearney and Mary Ann Kennedy, on the late-night telly. And what a grumpathon it was.

No, not Tony and Mary Ann. The two of them were happy to show off their dental work. But why is it that so many performers on the one TV programme celebrating the finest musicality of Gaeldom put on their dourest, sourest faces?

Very talented and normally happy people, competitors and established names, who should be ecstatic that they are performing to the nation, suddenly take on the joyless demeanour of our prime minister. Why don’t their tutors encourage them to smile – even if they are not enjoying themselves?

Thank goodness for Donnie Large, that’s all I can say. He helped lift the Gaelic gloom on one night, at least.

Getting all worked up about the nightly sulkiness, on Thursday I decided to head back to Oban to tell everyone to start smiling. I told the light of my life that I needed to take a train northwards to visit long-lost relatives in Dumbarton; I knew she didn’t like that place so would lose all interest in my movements. She can’t even say its name properly. She pronounces it as Dumb-Parton. I don’t know if she is having a go at that smiley, well-built country and western singer or just needs false teeth.

One of the first people I bumped into in Oban was the legendary comic entertainer Norman Maclean (autobiography now available in all good bookshops). He knows how to smile. We had a long chat about his run-ins with Brigitte Bardot and Frank Sinatra. Then we went off and had a few strong drinks together – Americano coffees in the Cuan Mòr restaurant.

Then there was another broadly-smiling legend. Willie Morrison, a veteran reporter of the parish of Durness who used to write for this very organ, was also to be found stravaiging on George Street. Many is the Mod I have had with Uilleam where he has regaled us in the late evening with heart-tugging renditions of ballads about the big sheep of the Highland Clearances. Willie could bring a tear to a glass eye, aye he could. But he smiles most of the time.

Reassured that there were enough smilers to keep things light until the end of the week, I headed south. I was soon to learn the perils of using ScotRail’s latest toilets improperly. Unlike the town-centre ones, you need to press a button to lock yourself in. Only then will the outside “engaged” light come on.

I was sitting not far from just such a convenience and saw a young lady enter. She did not lock it from the inside so no light came on. Oh-oh. A blue-rinsed Mod-goer was about to enter, so I warned her there was someone in already. She shot me a withering glare suggesting I mind my own business and muttered no light was on.

Shrieks from the interrupted youngster rang round the carriage. I felt like saying “Told you so,” but magnanimously I kept shtum.

It is a three-hour journey from Oban. A couple of hours afterwards, I noticed the haughty blue-rinse lady nipping to the loo again. I couldn’t believe it. No light. She’d forgotten to lock it.

Then a big, burly man, with builder’s cleavage, went to spend a penny. I know, I could have said something about the blue-rinse lady being still in there. I am so naughty.

Bloodcurdling screams reverberated everywhere as the door slid open and the grumpy woman was confronted at her business by the bursting builder.

I’m still giggling. Is that very bad of me?

Categories: Gaelic · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · TV · Western Isles
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I think Lord Lucan is alive and well and living in Branahuie

September 8, 2009 · 1 Comment

FANCY being in a place where even the people who live there can hardly pronounce it.

Actually, it happens here in the islands quite a bit because there are so many Gaelic names which don’t translate easily into the language of those down saff, innit.

For example, pick up a visitor from the mainland at Stornoway Airport, drive out and the first thing they will see is a sign that says Branahuie. They always ask the same thing: so do they make bran in Bran-na-huey?

So you put right the imbecilic incomer and tell them it is just a triple-glazed shanty town of people who hate travelling, so they live close to the airport in case they ever have to go to the mainland in a hurry. That keeps them happy for a bit.

Then, for good measure, you tell them the correct name of the place is Braigh na h-Aoidhe. You then spell it out, talking very slowly, and tell them the shorter form on the road sign is just to make it easier for our dear visitors from Engelant and Whales.

For the rest of the journey into town you have to put up with a confused traveller trying in his own head to make sense of how that particular so-called “easy” combination of letters doesn’t rhyme with Hughie.

It is just a shouting noise of which there are no grammatical examples in the entire Oxford English Dictionary, they ponder.

Apparently, there are people who have moved to that noisy township who have stayed quiet for years practising that end bit every day before they have even attempted to try and tell anyone else where they live. It would be embarrassing to admit you can’t say where you live.

Branahuie resident not seen since 1974?

I bet that is why no one has heard from Lord Lucan for a while. He is not actually missing, just living quietly in Branahuie and is too mortified to tell anyone he can’t pronounce it. When was he last seen? 1974? Should be getting close now, but it does take a while to get it right.

In case you are thinking of going down to Branahuie to try to find Lord Lucan, remember that his appearance may have changed. Where once he was the dapper mustachioed earl shown in press photos, the ravages of decades may mean he is not so immaculate now and he could just come out with nonsense.

Remember there are other residents in that village who also make little sense at the best of times. If you do meet a suspicious-looking local character who rambles on incessantly about this and that, make sure you haven’t just met David Morrison, the radio boss and insurance supremo. Or even Glenn Denny, another Isles FM widecaster.

So just to be clear, neither of these two Branahuievians is wanted in connection with any murder. However, as most people here are aware, both their tastes in music should definitely be a crime of some kind.

Down in Harris, Amhuinnsuidhe is another splendid name for setting off the migraines of tourists. While, on Barra, you can’t pronounce Earsaraidh correctly without some right-on visitor being aghast that anyone would use language like that in polite company. Particularly the ones from Stornoway who are all convinced it is terribly rude.

Another one is Airidhbhruach, that village by the uppermost extremities of Loch Seaforth and which is famous for many reasons. That long, straight stretch of road just to the south of the settlement meant that, when I was young, it was the place to go to test how fast your car could go. A weekend was not complete until you had flipped over your clapped-out Ford Escort Mk1 at a heart-stopping 55mph and then crawled back to Airidhbhruach on all fours to phone home to say you needed a lift to the hospital to repair your face.

You couldn’t phone an ambulance because the cops would come and you weren’t insured.

Never happened to me, of course. Just something I heard about. Can’t think where. Maybe I dreamed it. Yeah, that must be it. Never happened. Forget I said anything.

Since then, however, the village has become notable for several things. Apart from the awesome wealth of its inhabitants, there is the magnificent singing voice of Donald Martin, the mysterious mini-Taj Mahal built on the left of the road as you approach from the north and, of course, the delightful Katie Ann Mackenzie, she of Gaelic radio fame.

Now the very name of the village is set to be stamped into our consciousness by the efforts of no less than the AGOFR (that’s Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock) supergroup. Made up of members of notable beat combos like The Guireans, the Dun Ringles, The Iain MacKinnon Experience, Memphis Louie and the Rockin’ Firebird of Death, they have put together an emotional soul-prodder of a ballad that celebrates all that is excellent about Airidhbhruach.

It is crafted like the aria that is Hallelujah, penned by Leonard Cohen but which everyone under 50 thinks was made famous by Simon Cowell and last year’s X Factor winner person.

With words that play heavily on the ongoing strife waged between our allegedly softer town-dwellers and the more hard-edged country gentlemen, it may be immediately apparent to some that the lads’ lyrics are not quite those of the legendary Mr Cohen.

The original, of course, has many lines that rhyme with Hallelujah. How could AGOFR tackle that challenge?

The language purists don’t approve,
It’s Airidh a’ bhruaich, ya townie pooves,
Pronounce it right or we will fleekeen do ya.

If you have been there before,
You probably won’t go back no more,
Especially if you’re a deer – because they’ll stew ya.

Listen to it several times on YouTube and tell me it is not the most awe-inspiring tribute to a village and its people that you have ever heard.

And if Lord Lucan hears it, it could be the final straw that makes him hand himself in.

Categories: Gaelic · Isle of Harris · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · Western Isles
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Airidhbhruach

September 2, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen will never be the same again. This song will stick in your head – if you are from Lewis.  This is the audio-only version – the atmospheric in-vision version is on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jThyzRVIdI.

It is by the AGOFR (Avante Gaelic Obscurist Folk Rock) supergroup which is made up from members of The Guireans, Dun Ringles, The Iain MacKinnon Experience, Memphis Louie and the Rockin’ Firebird of Death, the Calum Kennedy Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd … it says here.

Airidhbhruach

I’ve heard there was a secret cearrd
Beyond the turning for Garyvard
But you just don’t care for South Lochs, do ya?
So keep going thus past Brown Owl’s bus
Give Eishken, Seaforth Head a miss
And you will find yourself in Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach

The language purists don’t approve
It’s Airidh a’ bhruaich, ya townie pooves
Pronounce it right or we will fleekeen do ya
We’ll use a blunted tairsgear
To jab your toinn and cut your hair
Until you start pronouncing “Airidhbhrua-ich”
It’s Airidh a’ bhrua-ich, Airidh a’ bhrua-ich
Airidh a’ bhrua-ich, Airidh a’ bhrua-ich

If you have been there before
You probably won’t go back no more
Especially if you’re a deer because they’ll stew you
Martins and Montgomerys-es
Conspire to put you in the freezer
It’s cold in there in fleekeen Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach

They do their messages at the van
Cos there’s no shops it’s the only place they can
Get stuff like tins of beans and marag dubh, yeah
And once a year they go to Woolies
But from next week that will be foolish
Cos Woolies will be closed and everybody in it
Will be on the burroo-ya
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach

They’re half-Hearach and half-South Lochs
And half-Balallan, o mo chreach
That combination sends a shiver through ya
They don’t like to read or write
They’d rather shoot at things at night
And net some bradan before they get the curam
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach

And some of them are APCs
And one or two more are Wee Frees
And three or four have joined the Continue-ya (ing)
So when their ammunition’s spent
They go to church for a good precent
Especially when it is the comm-i-yoonians
In Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach
Airidhbhruach, Airidhbhruach

Categories: Isle of Harris · Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · Western Isles
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We should choose our next MP by making hopefuls entertain us

August 31, 2009 · 4 Comments

THERE is a lot of hidden talent in these little islands way out west. You will never guess who appeared on stage playing the mandolin at a recent reception. One of our wannabe MPs, that’s who. No, it wasn’t Dr Jean Davis, of the Lib Dems. I do, however, have a suggestion for her that could help her win the next election if she keeps reading.

Somewhere, sometime, another parliamentary hopeful has been strumming furiously. Somewhere, sometime, a band was formed. And somehow Donald John Macsween, of Labour, is one of them.

Although he and most of his fellow performers were lurking beneath black fedoras so nobody would recognise them, your correspondent was not fooled by these mad hatters. Gavin Lawson was the lead singer and the unlikely ensemble was largely made up of a bunch of municipal types you bump into in the corridors of the White House council HQ.

Not quite what you may think of as eye candy: Derek McKim, Lachie Macinnes, Matt Bruce, Andy White and Alan Fish were obviously selected carefully because of other talents. Derek looked very chilled, as is anyone who can hide behind that bushy a beard. Matt looked meaner and moodier than usual – no, I didn’t think it was possible, either – lurking under a big brim. And the lot of them played not only adequately but almost superbly and in very melodic and harmonic time.

Gavin is a class act. That voice. He could put out the line no bother. If he wants to move his musicality up a notch, a future as a precentor in the Free Church (Continuing) awaits whenever he wants it. He and the lads soon had the small but perfectly formed congregation of culture vultures gathered in the Bayhead hall with the promise of a sausage and a swig quite enthralled. The mixture of wistful tunes drew heavily on mellow, western, jazzy, gospelly blues and stuff.

With yee-ha classics to boot, like Big Rock Candy Mountain, the huddle of Hebridean hobos put the count in country music with the seven of them wedged on to the creaking stage which had been kept warm by Murdo Dan Macdonald in the Altogether. Not that MD was showing us anything inappropriate, you understand, it is just that this new band of his is called Le Chèile, Gaelic for altogether.

It was a rollercoaster journey. The circle was unbroken by and by after we saw the light and then we went down to the river but we kept on the sunny side before saying goodnight to Irene and then seeing her in our dreams.

These guys do not even have a name yet. Suggestions like The Death Knell of Crofting, the Hillwillies and The Alasdair Allan Fan Club have, unaccountably, been discarded. Your suggestions, though, will be passed on.

Their professionalism even extended to a roadie being flown over the pond to take care of business. Mike Erickson soon had them wired up and, being American, he was also able to flip the burgers. Invaluable.

Mr Macsween’s contribution? Well, he is no Jimi Hendrix. Eric Clapton need not fret, either. But on this his first musical outing, he was, it has to be said, not that atrocious. He didn’t actually sing solo I don’t think, but I suspect he will be planning to withhold that particular treat until the post-election party. That news should clinch it for the SNP.

All bands have a rider – a list of demands you have to agree to when you book them. I have seen theirs. Champagne, caviar, pretty girls? Nope, just tea, coffee and home baking. Wow, how random is that?

Did ever-optimistic DJ know that Noel Gallagher was going to throw his toys out of the pram and that Oasis were going to have a vacancy?

The new Noel Gallagher

The new Noel Gallagher

Donald Lamont came up with the outlandish suggestion that, rather than knocking lumps out of each other over who said what and when over the rocket range in Uist, maybe DJ Macsween and Angus Macneil, the MP, should instead just have a sing-off.

That fits snugly alongside the radical new criteria of custom and tradition that is now the mantra adopted by the great and the good who rule over us. Can the candidates actually sing, though?

To make it fair, I wonder how well Angus B could play the mandolin. He has that dark-eyed look of a cool plucker and I bet he could squeeze a melodeon or get a cat’s wail out of a set of bagpipes, if pressed.

I am sure, too, that the Lib Dems’ lady-in-waiting would be more than capable of tickling the ivories if Jean Davis put her mind to it. She has, I would say, that well-rounded personality which looks so homely and comfortable, particularly if it was perched adjacent to a grand piano.

So each Saturday evening up until polling day, we could have BBC Alba screening all the candidates’ efforts through their respective musical renditions. The weekly theme could reflect that week’s election issue. So rather than have all that tedious debating over whether SNP-inspired RET is the best thing ever, they could each perform their version of Sailing and be done with it.

We would then ring in and vote. Done, matter decided.

On the Uist range issue, Macneil, Macsween and Davies and any other running mates which materialise from the Stop Sunday Ferries campaign could take it in turns to perform a tribute to defence minister Quentin Davies. Elton John’s Rocket Man? Or B.A. Robertson’s Bang Bang?

The next week, the issue could be, oh I don’t know, fishing quotas. The hopefuls could all give us their versions of Brotherhood of Man’s perennial Save All Your Kippers For Me.

Then, just before the phone vote, the candidates could all gather round and together play something appropriate. Like Prawn To Be Wild or something by Sushi Quatro?

Or maybe just something off the Sex Pistols’ memorably anarchic collection entitled Never Mind The Pollocks.

Categories: Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · Western Isles · reviews
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Fascinating facts about the UK but don’t mention Megrahi

August 24, 2009 · Leave a Comment

DID you know that the average British woman’s bottom measures 34 inches? They are not the most gigantic in Europe, either, because the average rump of an Italian mama mia is a whopping two inches larger.

And did you know that the average marriage in Britain lasts just 11.5 years? So, I have done more than most – although I was sentenced to more. A bit like Abdelbaset al Megrahi.

Abdelbaset al-Megrahi

Abdelbaset al-Megrahi

No, stop me there. I must try and not mention him. I could get carried away.

Instead, let me make it crystal clear now that I have absolutely no intention of reaching for the measuring tape to size up the tush of anyone in this house because, if I did, I know I, too, would soon be included in the statistics for battered husbands, divorced journalists and battered and divorced journalists to boot.

The reason I share all these fascinating facts with you now is because I can. A wonderful book is out called 8 Out Of 10 Brits: Intriguing and Useless Statistics About The World’s 79th Largest Nation. It sets out some gobsmacking details and comparisons which make us what we are.

For instance, did you even think that about one in 10 people under 35 would happily give Botox as a Christmas present? Amazing, eh? But I couldn’t do it.

“Darling, you know how much I love you. It’s not that you’re ugly or anything, but here is something that will probably give you the complexion of a dead haddock.”

And we watch 219 minutes of telly a day. And more now because the time of year has come round again when families attach themselves to the sofa after tea on a Saturday and just forget all about feeding the oxen, ploughing the fields or cutting the hay.

Yes, it’s that time again. It’s time for Simon Cowell to make a few more million quid.

You will not catch me putting my life on hold for hours each week to gawp at X Factor on ITV1, Xtra Factor on ITV2 and the repeats. No way.

Whether half the country is doing it or not, the very last thing I want to do with my weekend is vegetate in front of that awful trash TV which rots mind, body and soul.

Well, maybe I saw a teeny bit of it. I can’t avoid it in this house, right? I am running around and I can’t get the vacuuming done. The others I share my so-called life with won’t even lift their feet as the parade continues of poor, unfortunate, vulnerable types for our pleasure. I don’t just mean Louis Walsh, either.

From the few seconds I did catch, Cheryl Cole did look slightly mega-fantastic.

As always. The Minogue woman was completely outclassed and should go back to being someone’s wee sister. When all those hopeless hopefuls were on at the start, I thought Dannii should be on that stage.

And wasn’t that teacher guy at the end great? What a stonker of a performance. He had me going like only Iain Mackay, the Point piston-fixer, can do when he launches into that famous anthem about the tackety boots.

I ud ud eatharam, I ud ud aoiream, I ud ud eatharam, Chunna mise ‘raoir thu.

For the couple of readers of this column without Gaelic, that is all pronounced as: Ee udd udd ayaram, ee udd udd uyarumm, ee udd udd ayaram. And the last bit translates as: I saw you last night. What do the other bits mean? Who knows? It is just nonsense. But it’s Gaelic nonsense.

It’s not the words, you see. It’s the oomph.

Iain delivers these slightly-puzzling but obviously lust-inspired lyrics with lorry-loads of gusto and panache.

On X Factor, Simon Cowell got a mere flash of that from the singing teacher. But the Bayble Barnstormer does it all the time.

It is about time we had a Gaelic singer on there. We had the wacko warbler Rhydian giving it laldy in Welsh, so why not?

Iain, you’re young-ish, you’re good looking-ish, you like a wee drop-ish. And you have the likeability factor. Step up to the plate.

Quick, hide the knives and forks, because Iain likes his grub.

It must be lonely for contestants up there on the stage. Lonely as in Kenny MacAskill lonely. When I stumbled into him in An Lanntair gallery a couple of weeks ago, I did think he was preoccupied with something.

He had that faraway look in his eyes. He only nibbled at one haggis, neep and spud skewer.

If only I had known. I would have told him to do the right thing. But no need. He did it anyway. Now he is being bullied.

Did I say to stop me mentioning Megrahi? Forget it, sunshine. Scotland is being bullied by people who think we are a country which cannot take big decisions. We are being bullied by dinosaurs who cannot hide their monstrous tendencies. Scottish dinosaurs, too.

Led mainly by Labour, of course. Old Labour, New Labour, crazy Labour, ex-Labour, the FBI and Uncle Tom Cobley. Even the occasionally-upright George Gawk is at it.

They think they see a chance for scoring points and in they charge like herds of wildebeest sweeping across the machair showing that a party supposedly devoted to care and social conscience is not worth tuppence against political opportunism.

Not a word against the proper, compassionate release of terminal prisoners until the spotlight is on us, oh no.

How lucky we are to have a few freethinkers unfettered by dogma left in Scotland. No, not George Gawk. I told you; he is now off my list.

I mean Tam Dalyell, who seems now to be the only decent, conscience-driven fellow among them. He, too, is up there on a surprisingly lonely stage.

Dontcha just luv the lot of ‘em?

Er, no.

Pity Tam Dalyell has retired. He would have got my vote to go through to the live semi-finals.

Categories: Isle of Lewis · Outer Hebrides · Popular culture · Scotland · Stornoway · TV · Western Isles
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