Category Archives: Radio

Interview with Donnie Macinnes of the Stornoway Gazette

This is a feed of the interview I did with Donnie ‘Gazette’ Macinnes as he retired after 47 years. It’s in two parts. Just click the arrow.

An interview with Donnie Gazette Macinnes

The candidates on Isles FM

Click the arrow to listen to the Great Debate broadcast on Isles FM on Monday 3rd May after 5pm.

I want to say a big privet to our readers back in the USSR

TECHNOLOGY is everywhere and we are now so used to it we just forget it is there. Although I know that, for instance, my brother reads this in Malaysia, I often cannot quite get my head round the fact that it is not just crofters from Boddam to Barvas who have a peek.

Some unlikely Press and Journal readers have scrutinised my words recently. Like the Russians, for example.

After my sceptical comments last week about the ash cloud and the over-the-top response from the authorities, I had a call from a friendly TV newsman called Demetre.

Turns out he is with the TV channel Russia Today and he wanted to bring the nonsense spouted by me for a cheap giggle in the P&J last week to a wider audience.

Like who? I asked. Like people in Russia and expat Russkis around the globe. Gulp.

As I reached for my Russian For Dummies book, he said it was for the international service, which was also in English.

I ended up being interviewed online by webcam. I was told to stare at this wee plastic camera, which I had previously only ever used to put my Jaffa Cakes on as I stabbed out my words of wisdom. Loudly and interestingly, I pontificated to the nation of perestroika and glasnost about my scepticism over the flights ban.

Afterwards, I smiled a self-satisfied smile to myself. Didn’t I speak well? Who else would have made such fascinatingly clear and well-defined points? I was convinced the Russians could not turn up their noses at my contribution. Sure enough, they said they were using me in the main news.

When I switched over to Russia Today on Sky TV that evening, I was horrified. My webcam had been sited far too low on my desk and had somehow zoomed in. The most obvious thing about the contributor in the Hebrides of Scotland was the really quite awful and utterly disturbing view of the inside of the Maciver nostrils.

That is to say nothing of my chins, all of which, from that unflattering angle, seemed to have taken on a life of their own while I spoke and wobbled continuously. Aaargh.

So, hello to all our Russian readers. Actually, I think that should be privet. For the benefit of all the perplexed Aberdonians reading this, I should point out that’s not Gaelic, by the way. I am assured it’s the traditional Russian greeting straight from the Gulags. Which I suppose means it is Russian for something like: “What’s the craic the day, cove?”

So, for subjecting the viewers of Russia Today TV to that awful and intimate insight into my nose hair and internal orifices, I do humbly apologise. President Putin, if you are reading this, I wish to say that I am sorry. Or: “Mne ochen zhal,” as they say in downtown Moscow.

To recover from that trauma, I set off to the grounds of Lews Castle with daughter and dog. There were quite a few people about doing similar dog-walking things. We turned back at Sober Island as we had watered enough plants and sniffed enough bottoms.

When I say “we”, I mean Hector, our miniature schnauzer. Just in case you thought . . .

Anyway, the fresh air and blood surging round my veins made me a bit silly. I thought it would be a good idea to fling the dog’s lead up over the branches overhead and catch it as it fell. Good exercise for me too. Whee.

However, in front of the Woodlands Centre, it went up but didn’t return. The lead landed on a fork probably 25 feet up in the branches. And there it stayed.

What should I do? I thought of ordering the progeny to scramble up the tree, but she didn’t seem overly keen. So what if she had fallen? We were within a mile of a hospital with perfectly adequate A&E facilities. Kids nowadays; no sense of adventure.

Of course, I was perfectly willing to start climbing myself. Unfortunately, no forklift trucks went by that I could ask to get me up to the first branch.

Maybe if I threw something up I could dislodge it? I did consider swinging Hector by his tail and flinging him aloft. Sadly, his tail was docked before we got him, so all he has is a wee stump. You couldn’t swing a cat by it.

Then I got it. I would take off one of my trainers and keep throwing it up into the tree until I dislodged the lead. It is easier said than done to hit something at that height. It was taking a lot of practice to get even near it.

Courtesy of waymarking.com

My first efforts were way off and dislodged nothing but leaves and pieces of bark which showered down.

Then three lady joggers came prancing along. They seemed taken aback. All they could see was this fellow throwing his shoe up into a tree and then quickly jumping out of the way before it fell back and clobbered him on the head. And he was doing all that while hopping on one leg.

They stood there, open-mouthed.

Apparently, at first they thought I was taking part in some bizarre game or ancient, pagan ritual. They couldn’t see the dog’s lead high up in the branches.

After the falling shoe walloped me on the cranium for the umpteenth time, I took a breather and explained to the bewildered runners what I was doing.

“There’s a dog’s lead way up there. Honest, there is. Look, I’m not mad. Why are you smiling? Hey, come back. You can see it if you stand here.”

It took ages for the lead to fall. By that time, the joggers were well away and by now will have told many people that they saw a peculiar man who spends his time throwing his shoe at trees.

I wonder what they would make of that in Russia.

I am busy keeping my wayward wife and preparing for election

WOKE up this morning and there was no sign of Mrs X. Ah, she must be cooking a special breakfast for me, I thought. I’ll tiptoe down and surprise her. No, she’s not in the kitchen. Not in the loo. Garden shed? Nope.

No note on the fridge to say she has gone round to her sister’s? No. Of course, she has taken the mutt for a walk in the castle grounds. No, Hector’s still in his basket. Don’t panic; there must be a perfectly simple explanation. No, there isn’t. She has run off with someone. And it’s usually someone the wronged partner knows. Who was the last person I saw giving her a peck on the cheek?

Jimmy Ogilvie. Having had cataracts removed from both his eyes, he actually told me how it had changed his life as he can see pretty girls for the first time. Now he has changed my life by skipping off with my old missus.

He has single-handedly ruined my life; that’s what he’s done. Things will never be the same again. I’ll have to do my own cooking and stuff.

What did the fork-tongued Laird of Ogilvie Towers (currently closed to the general public) see in her? Everything, obviously, after his eye ops. And what was the attraction for her? I bet he’s got loads of money. We’ve all seen Jimmy O, sitting there in the corner of the Lewis and the Carlton sipping fine Napoleon brandy from his fancy crystal goblet. Shamelessly flaunting his bulging wallet, he has turned my beloved’s head.

Not that I haven’t got a wee bulge myself, you understand. It’s just not in my back pocket. Mine is more upfront, if you know what I mean. However, having just appointed Binnie, one of the superstars off the Gaelic TV weight-loss show Farpais Fhallain, as my personal trainer, I’ll soon slim down and blacken both of Ogilvie’s roving eyes.

Wait. Was it not Donnie Saunders I last saw planting a kissag on her? Donnie flipping Saunders. Him off the radio. I should have known. She has a thing about those broadcast types. Well, well. What the heck has he got that I haven’t got? Apart from a Crocodile Dundee hat?

And she is a stranger to the truth. She told me she didn’t like beards on men when I went a bit Adrian Chiles. Scarlet woman that she is. Right, sit down in a quiet room. Deep breaths. That’s it; into the living room.

“Hullo, darling, come in. Andy Murray was two sets down, but he is coming back now.”

There, bold as you like, was the alleged hussy herself in front of the telly, a cup of coffee in one hand and a breakfast crumpet in the other, looking as if the only bulges on her mind were the ones delivering Murray’s forearm smashes. She had sneaked downstairs at 8am to watch it.

Good morning, dear. You watch the tennis. I’ll just go and write something for the P&J.

First, though, I boil myself an egg to celebrate the return of my prodigal wife and wonder how Margaret Thatcher scoffed up to 28 a week to lose weight before the 1979 election. Maybe she kept up that regime afterwards, too.

Her Cabinet was probably so desperate to get upwind of her they would agree to anything.

“Right, let’s bomb the Belgrano. What do you say, John Nott?”

“Yes, yes, Margaret, whatever you say. Now would someone please open a window.”

It is important I study the habits of high-profile political figures in case I decide to stand at the expected forthcoming election on May 6. A letter arrived the other day asking me to allow my name to be put forward to be the Christian Party candidate. So I have cleared my diary.

Snigger ye not. It is an American-style open primary, so it’s open to anyone to be selected. And they are, we hear, having a bit of difficulty finding someone of the right calibre. They say they want someone to rock the boat. So call me, Rev Hargreaves.

My only mistake was showing the plea to sometime Labour apparatchik Callum Ian MacMillan. I suspect he’s now going for it, too. I told him it will take more than going now and again to listen to Rev Kenny I, and knowing upbeat Father Tom Kearns, the self-confessed former 1960s London swinger who is priest in the Catholic church, to become the ideal ecumenical candidate.

Kenny in the SNP office admits they are worried down there. They’ve heard the MacMillan fellow is the preferred candidate of the Gideons, the bedside-Bible crowd. Bet the Gideons are in Kenny I’s flock, too. That’s what I’m up against – cliques.

My secret weapon is that I’m going to be a doctor. I won’t be ripping out any appendixes just yet as I will be a doctor of divinity.

I came across this site on the internet, you see. All I had to do was answer a question or two like who was Adam and what does the word covet mean when they talk about your neighbour’s wife in the 12 commandments. Take note, the covetous Messrs Ogilvie and Saunders.

Just sent a hefty cheque, for post and packing, to an American college. I think it is really kosher in a general, non-Jewish way. Now a scroll confirming my new academic status is winging its way back across the pond.

My manifesto will say those who covet others’ wives will be put to death. No messing about.

Mrs X is shouting from downstairs that Andy Murray has lost to Roger Federer. Fantastic game, she says, but Andy is just saving himself for the ardours of a certain summer tournament in Wimbledon. Yeah yeah, whatever.

I’m still worried that Mrs X herself might be still saving herself for the ardours of that Ogilvie fellow – or that Saunders.

Islands’ think-tank considers culture, crime amid much froth

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.

What did Alex Salmond mean when he used the word brammer?

WHEN the first minister and president-in-waiting of the republic of Scotland starts speaking Gaelic, we teuchters sit up and take notice. When we figure out he is not actually speaking our language but some obscure Scots – or, even worse, Doric – we go back to completely ignoring the poor fellow again.

So when Alex Salmond said recently that the election in Glasgow North-East was going to be “a brammer”, Gaels from Galson to Galashiels looked at each other and together went: “Duda?” What the heck was the big man on about?

I was quite shocked. Almost as shocked as I was on Saturday night when I turned on the telly to see Harry Hill’s TV Burp only to find Jock Murray, Kenny Mobil and the other naked peatcutters flashing their credentials on there. Did you see that? No? Count yourself very lucky, indeed.

Brammer, or so we all thought up here, was a proper Gaelic term that had been nicked and moulded by uncaring monoglots to fit the rules of English. Like the word galore, and duff, and subsidy.

Predictably, all the political correspondents were scrambling for their compendiums of Scottish slang. And a right burach they got themselves into as they decided to get to the bottom of this brammer business.

Alex Salmond with a bramair in Stornoway

Alex Salmond meets a bramair in Stornoway

Some said it was a term from the military in India and from the Hindu god Brahma, so it meant something deserving of respect and admiration. Hmm.

Some quoted a slang dictionary that had brammer listed between bowfin’ (smelly) and brassic (broke) as a west of Scotland word for splendid. Might have been what Alex Salmond meant but, nope, not up here it isn’t.

Others said it was another word for a woman that is pleasing to the eye as an alternative to smasher or stoater. No, that’s just pios math.

Let’s be honest, they were all wrong as far as we were concerned. Brammer, brammar, brahma, bràmair, with an accent or without – however you spell it – is a mighty fine word.

It is, of course, a term used when addressing children of school age about their boyfriends and girlfriends.

As in: “So, young Tommy, have you got a brammer yet?”

It can also be handy for parental guidance sessions about the role of the teaching profession, as in: “Now, Kylie, listen to me. Mr Macdonald is not your brammer. He is just your maths teacher. Yes, I know he looks like Simon Cowell, but that is not a good thing. OK?”

The term is polite, unequivocal and a completely innocent and Gaelic way of addressing the sticky matter of interpersonal relationships. That means that it has always been completely suitable for use on the Gaelic radio greetings and requests programme Na Dùrachdan on Friday evenings.

However, and remember this, it is not suitable for using when you stumble out of the Lewis Bar on a Saturday night and are convinced someone is giving you the glad eye.

No, you don’t ask if he or she has a brammer yet. You, of course, ask if they would like to come back to a party because you have half a tonne of cheap supermarket lager back at the flat and you need someone to help you finish it. Well, I am told that is how the romantic etiquette of most Stornoway lads goes nowadays.

But which is the correct spelling of that word? To answer the question, I tracked down Neen Mackay, a veteran of the greetings programme from, oh, decades ago. That word was a big part of her life back then, as I remember.

I think Neen was worried that I would not put it the right way in the paper. So just to put her mind at rest that I have not made a mistake or that she is not being misquoted in any way I will just reprint her entire reply.

“Aye, aye, cove. Properly, it’s bràmair. But, for country folk, any word beginning with ‘bram’ will do.

“So, how are you, anyway, big boy? Good to hear from you. All this talk of bràmairs takes me back to when you and I were working together. Gosh, we had a few bràmairs back then, didn’t we? In fact, we were a couple of bràmairs. Oh mo chreach sa thainig. Good job our partners don’t know what you and I got up to back then, eh?

“If I can help you with any little thing at all just give me a tinkle any time.”

Yes, well, I have no idea what Ms Mackay is on about there. I hardly knew the woman. It was all a long time ago.

Anyway, she reckoned the correct word was bràmair, even if they did have their own funny versions in Dalmore and Dalbeg. She should know.

That was good enough for me, so I went to check that word in the Gaelic college’s Stòr-dàta Briathrachais Gàidhlig. That’s a sort of online database of all Gaelic thingummybobs in the known universe.

And, bingo, it’s there. It is listed but, in a piece of awful, rampant Gaelic sexism, it has bràmair down as just meaning girlfriend or pin-up. On the radio request show and while I was growing up in Great Bernera primary school at any rate, it had always included us males of the species, too.

So I conducted more research and found another problem. Looking up bramair in that most comprehensive of tomes, Dwelly’s Gaelic Dictionary, I found it listed also, but with yet another altogether different meaning. While putting his dictionary together, Mr Dwelly decided that a bramair was a flatulent fellow. That’s what it says. I am only the messenger.

I looked up flatulent. All I can say is that I am more confused than ever by what Alex Salmond said about the Glasgow North East by-election. While politicians have often been said to be full of hot air, it is really a bit much for anyone to call any of them a bramair in the Dwelly’s sense of the word. Even if they sometimes are.

Guga-hunters’ trawler Heather Isle M saved

A trawler had dropped a party of hunters off on an uninhabited island for the annual harvest of young gannets when it was at the centre of a drama last night as  it began to sink.

Stornoway lifeboat and the coastguard helicopter were called out on Friday evening as the Heather Isle M with five of a crew began to take water near Bayble Island after the trip to the island of Sulasgeir where the hunting party for the seabirds – known as gugas – will be based for more than a week.

After a pump was lowered on board, the flow of water was stemmed enough to get the trawler safely into Stornoway.

The alarm was raised before 5pm when the trawler, owned by brothers Calum and Murdo Murray of Ness, began to take water.

Three of the crewmen were winched off as a precaution before it was confirmed that the trawler was no longer sinking.

Crewman Murdo Fraser,a former policeman, said: “I really want to pay tribute to the professionalism of the everyone who responded – the coastguards, the lifeboat crew and the helicopter crew. It was an anxious time till we saw them.”

Lifeboat cox Murdie Campbell said they had been prepared with a second pump if it had been necessary but the trawler did not need it.

After reaching Stornoway, Calum Murray said: “I had just taken over the watch. The water was coming in and the electric pumps could not cope because the belts were slipping as the water rose. I called the coastguard and the helicopter and lifeboat were there very quickly. They put a pump down to us and the levels went down. The boat seems fine.”

He and the crew said that party of hunters on Sulasgeir, 40 miles north of Lewis, may be unaware of what had happened and would have begun the harvest of the strong-smelling seabirds as normal.

The hunters are due back at Ness in the north of the island, where the bird is seen as a delicacy, at the end of next week.

I went to the harbour to speak to one of the owners, Calum Murray, but firstly I  spoke to lifeboat cox Murdie Campbell. Press the arrow below to hear the interviews.

The John Macleod fan club

Radio forecaster mucks up the weather

Some weather forecasters are so careless. This would never happen on Isles FM.

http://soundcloud.com/pgpgpg/muddy-shite-radio-4-presenter-corpses

Isles FM on Sunday ferries

Isles FM is hosting a live discussion on Friday, 26th June. The topic is Caledonian MacBrayne’s plan to introduce Sunday ferries on the route to Stornoway. The discussion will be at the Bridge Centre in Bayhead Street, Stornoway.

The courtyard of the Bridge Centre

The courtyard of the Bridge Centre (Thanks to ADB402004 on Flickr.com)

Why not ask a question? You may either email your question to sundayferriesdebate@isles.fm or just go along – strictly first come, first served. There are 60 seats but come early to be sure.

Enter via the archway virtually opposite the SNP office and the hall is on the right. Doors open at 4.30pm and everyone should be seated by 4.40pm.

A radio panel can be subject to change at short notice right up until the red light comes on. However, at this time, we hope to have:

* Reverend I D Campbell, church minister and LDOS branch chairman
* Angus Campbell, businessman and council leader
* John Macleod, journalist and commentator
* Mrs Mary McCormack, tour guide and former teacher

* Ian Fordham,  chairman, Outer Hebrides Tourism Assoc
* Philip Mclean, architect and councillor
* Uisdean Macleod, TV operations engineer and seven-day sailings campaigner
* Mal Macleod, former lecturer and seven-day sailings campaigner

CalMac was invited. It decided that due to the ongoing consultation it could not take part.

They will be listening in Wagga Wagga. The output of Isles FM is now streamed on the internet and anyone, wherever they are, will be able to listen in. Just go to www.isles.fm and select ‘Listen Now’.

PLEASE NOTE: A student at film school will be shooting a documentary while the discussion is being broadcast.