.

.

.

.
Communications between Highland Republic and Comhairle nan Eilean Siar can be viewed here http://www.whatdotheyknow.com/request/cost_of_friday_holiday_for_willi_2

Personally, I suspect even people who support the outdated and hugely expensive burden that is the monarchy will be shocked that the comhairle decided to deceive the taxpayer.  What else are they withholding?

.
Our Queen has two legs. Apparently, it just became official the other day.
Even though Prince Philip is always following closely behind her when they are visiting this or opening that, I never suspected Her Maj was being pushed about by him on some kind of modified shopping trolley.
Still, it seems to be red hot news that the monarch is as devoted to obligate bipedalism as the next monarch and it was reported the monarch not only has a pair of pins on her but that they are a fine and shapely set. Good grief. Hold the front page.

I remember the old, full version of the National Anthem referred to an aid but I didn’t think it was a walking aid. How did it go?

Lord grant that Marshal Wade, may by thy mighty aid,
Victory bring. May he sedition hush,
And like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush. God save the King.

Oh, that version. Right, let’s move on quickly.
The latest fuss about the royal limbs was because a portrait was commissioned to mark the Royal British Legion’s 90th year and the 85th birthday of our dearly-beloved monarch, its patron. Done by one Darren Baker, well-kent for his classical realism style. Seriously, he is superb. In fact, he is so good you’d be hard-pressed to figure out if it was a painting or a photo.

Well done, the Legion. Which reminds me; I’d better nip down and pay my subs. Well, one day the Legion might commission him to paint me. Mind you, if Donnie the inscrutable barman in the Stornoway branch has anything to do with it, I would be done alright – in emulsion.

The Queen’s portrait was unveiled the other day in Westminster Abbey, where Lieutenant General Sir John Kiszely KCB MC, the national president of the Legion, was very excited. He described Darren’s painting as “remarkably realistic”.

That is old duffer-speak for: “I say, chaps, you can see the jolly old Queen’s legs – and they ain’t half bad. Gosh, I need to go and lie down.”

Apparently, it is not the Queen’s habit normally to allow any close-ups of the royal ankles in portraits of any kind. One’s ankles are not for gawping at, you know. However, she completely melted when it came to requests by Darren, 35, whose usual subjects, if his website is anything to go by, are ladies in, er, varying states of undress. It’s OK, ma’am. You can keep the cardigan on.

So why am I, a convert to republicanism and conscientious objector to unearned privilege, telling you all about the Queen and her wonderfully, gorgeous legs? Because I know the Queen’s secret. I unwittingly discovered how she manages to possess fine feet, angelic ankles, unknobbly knees and so on.

When she and her husband last came to Stornoway in 2002, the visit culminated in lunch at Lews Castle College. A flock of the prettiest young animals with cute little tails and bright, sparkling eyes, which had gambolled just days before by a burbling stream in a sunny meadow, had been rounded up and slaughtered so the kindly royal twosome could feast on rack of lamb with the Hebridean favoured few.

Purely, by chance I was in touch with a cousin of mine the other day and we happened to be talking about the royals, as you do. She told me she had been at that lunch in the presence of Her Maj and her man. As one of the longest-serving staffers at a certain organisation, she had wangled a meal ticket.

In what was obviously a massive error by the organisers, my cousin Bernice found herself sitting opposite the glittering guests of honour. How lucky was that? Actually, I’m not so very sure it was lucky at all.
I’m not sure how well I would slice up my rack of young Blackface knowing that some blone who happened to be not just Head of the 54-strong Commonwealth of Nations, but also the British monarch for 50 or 60 years and also the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, and also one of the wealthiest women in the entire universe, was staring at me to see if I was using the correct knife.

“Lamb? No, thank you. I’m not very hungry, actually. May I have something I will not need to use cutlery for? That’s fine, just a glass of water then. Ice? No thanks. Let’s keep it simple and uncomplicated. By the way, is herself still staring at me?”

I think Bernice somehow managed a morsel or two but she admits she was entranced when Their Royal Highnesses came and plonked themselves down in front of her. She told me: “Honestly, when she sat down I was watching her and she kicked off her shoes under the table. Then she got out her wee mirror and proceeded to apply her lipstick.”

Now we know. Any chance the Queen gets – it’s off with the bachles and on with the lippy. So That’s how she has kept those fine ankles looking so well-turned down the years. Not with the lippy, obviously, but by kicking off her size sixes.
I was intrigued to learn that there are at least two pubs abroad which are called The Queen’s Legs in tribute to the royal pins. One is in Canada and the other in France and both are said to well-patronised by Brits.

Must be embarrassing to go to these pubs and find they’re not open yet.

I write on the off chance. I am producing a documentary for the BBC about Queen Elizabeth.
We have a fantastic story of the Royal Yacht Brittania being anchored in Castlebay, Barra in 1956. It was festooned with electric lights, while the island of Barra had no electricity.
Would you or any of your friends have a photograph of the Royal Yacht from this trip, or indeed know of any one who might? Thank you

David Street
david@davidstreet.tv

Shortly after the wedding was announced in November last year several media outlets – including the BBC and The Daily Telegraph – confidently predicted the event would provide a “shot in the arm” for Britain’s economy. In a press release issued at that time, Republic described the predictions as “a lot of wishful thinking and make-believe”.

Republic spokesman Graham Smith said: “It was obvious the royal wedding wasn’t going to boost the economy – that was just cheap spin from the Palace. The really worrying thing is that so many people fell for it.
“There is absolutely no evidence that the monarchy is good for the economy in any way. This is a myth created to justify the royal family’s huge drain on the public finances.
“I’m sure we will see more outlandish claims about the diamond jubilee over the next year. I hope in future journalists and politicians will demand clear evidence before repeating the Palace line.”

NOTES

Articles predicting that the royal wedding would have a positive effect on the economy included:

* BBC News online, November 16 2010, “UK economy set for royal wedding feel-good factor” http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-11766777

* The Daily Telegraph, November 17 2010, “Kate Middleton and Prince William’s wedding ‘will boost British economy by £620m’” http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/theroyalfamily/8139845/Kate-Middleton-and-Prince-Williams-wedding-will-boost-British-economy-by-620m.html

People often ask me about the economy of the Western Isles. Hey, don’t worry about us, you mainland types. We’ve plenty money. It’s coming out our ears.
With a yachtful of Russian billionaires here a week ago, they were splashing a lot of cash about. The funny thing was none of them looked wealthy. The ones I saw looked like ordinary crofters – and crofters who had not had their sheep subsidy yet.

They tramped around Stornoway in their wellies and sampled our hostelries. My mate George Gawk, another committed welly-wearer, spent an afternoon in MacNeil’s talking politics to three of them. As each billionaire fell asleep in turn as he told them Ed Miliband was going to change the world, their snoring rattled their gold chains and bracelets. Still, crofter George didn’t clock on his companions were actually mega-rich good mates of Vladimir. Each one could buy out the entire Outer Hebrides if they wanted to. But, no, they didn’t want to.

However, it’s not because of those billionaires from the superyacht Lauren L that Stornoway is awash with money just now. The problem is that a lot of the cash up here is fake. Apparently. Sssshhh. It’s not really a problem. If you find yourself the unwitting owner of a dodgy banknote, provided you follow these simple rules you will not lose out by this rotten stroke of luck. Here’s what you must do.

Nothing.

That’s right. Just like the wartime Ministry of Information advice to everyone keeping the home fires burning, keep calm and carry on. That way you can easily fob off the dud to some mug without drawing attention to yourself.
If, however, you happen to be honest, take it straight round to the cop shop and tell them the dodgy pubs you’ve been frequenting and who served you. That way you’ll cause the police a lot of extra work, they may even blow the overtime budget and you may get banned from every pubs for grassing them up to the cops. Still, your conscience will be clear.

Rich business owners of that parade of shops along North Beach Street began moaning recently that banks were sending back their takings saying some notes were duds. I had a look at some of these fakes and there was something very odd about them. They were very, very good. They were just too good.
Having seen fakes in London, although they seemed good at first sight, I remembered they looked rubbish close up. The Queen looked a bit glaikit, she had on a crown which was lop-sided and her whole body was leaning too far over as if she’d had a few too many.

It’s actually a very reliable test that I use to this day when I am out for a bevvy. At various times in the evening, I’ll examine a tenner and if Her Majesty looks half-scud then I know that one of two things has happened.Either I have acquired a dud or I have got myself blootered. And, if I can’t find any tenners in my pocket, then it’s defnitely time to hit the road.

A counterfeit £20 note was spotted by a manager of one of our hotels years ago. He knew it was a fake because he got caught in the rain and the colours in the note ran as it got wet. Probably been made by a schoolboy with a printer in his bedroom, it was a very poor fake.

Our banks recently suggested that shopkeepers get light scanners to show whether the notes were fakes. Most forked out but now it seems the scanners aren’t reliable either. They show many notes as fakes when they aren’t.
It has been causing real problems. There have been queues in some banks because staff have to scan all these notes individually.

You couldn’t even quench your thirst with cold lager in some places without your wonga being held up to the light and then run through bleeping machines which made us islanders feel like desperate criminals. OK, some of us are exactly that – but not all. Now we hear the cops are on the ball. They’ve forensically checked out a pile of the latest tenners and £20 notes found in Stornoway. Guess what? That’s right; there aren’t any fakes among them. They haven’t found a single one yet. All absolutely genuine. Oh no. I mean, oh yes.

What’s going on? Why did our bank branches in Lewis and Uist begin refusing genuine notes when there is no similar confusion on the mainland? Don’t tell me someone has badly messed up again at our once-great banking institutions? Methinks they now have a bit of explaining to do.

Unlike the Duke of Edinburgh who now can’t be bothered to explain anything. Way to go, sir. Did you see his interview with Fiona Bruce? It was pure, grumpy magic. Recently I mentioned how certain royals go around doing things that are delightful. Being delightful is what they do, I declared.

Except I’d forgotten about the old duke to which our capital lends his title. Being delightful is the very last thing he tries to be nowadays. He reminded us all that he doesn’t give a hoot what people think. Poor Fiona Bruce. She was struggling in that TV interview. What can you say to someone who doesn’t want to talk to you and who reckons he has done his bit and just wants to be left alone by self-serving interviewers?

At one point, he even refused to answer and just stared her out. And that was after all his worst bits like him demanding to know what kind of a foolish question was that she was asking were edited out. The duke was a bit like that wee madam Vicky Pollard from Little Britain. Except he doesn’t say he’s not bovvered – but you know he is thinking that one is really not so terribly bothered.

Still, at least he’s not a fake.

Off to the Bays Centre at Leacklee I went. No sooner there than a buzz went round about another refined lady said to be on the way. What? Why? Who? When?

A woman from Geocrab had overheard a man from the TV saying Cheryl was arriving soon. She asked him if it was that Cheryl, the bonnie lass from the north-east. Who else? he’d replied. Recounting what the lensman told her, Mrs Geocrab grabbed her mobile to call her husband Norman who, she whispered, had a big thing for the lass from Newcastle. When Cheryl did arrive, she looked different somehow. Mrs Geocrab was perplexed.

“Cheryl didn’t look like that on the last X Factor. Her legs have got longer, her hair has got redder and her accent has gone. She’s easier to understand.
“I said, you’re easier to understand, Cheryl, since you got rid of your husband. I’d do the same but the sheep are in Norman’s name. Makes it more difficult with the Crofters Commission.” Cheryl just smiled. Hearachs aren’t easy to understand either.

However, Ms Cole had not had leg extensions after all. This Cheryl was not the Cole one but the longer-limbed correspondent on business and other important things from STV who can be seen most evenings reporting from the windiest places she can find. Her flame-red locks can be seen flying about atop oilrigs, Trump Towers, and now the Bays centre car-park at Leacklee.
Her name’s Cheryl Paul, not Cheryl Cole. She’s not from the north-east of England but she was brought up in Invergordon. That’s north-east-ish.
The dozy cameraman fellow must have got it wrong, I tried to explain to the ladies of the Bays. Cameramen aren’t good with names. They think in pictures. And that one’s from Ranish. “That explains it,” nodded Mrs Geocrab.

Charles and Camilla were delightful. They are always delightful. Delightful is what they do. He was a bit like Cheryl Paul in the Bays breeze, constantly smoothing down his comb-over which rose and fell like the mast of a schooner coming round by Scarp. Not that Ms Paul has a comb-over. No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that when she’s on an oilrig, for instance, she always … I’ll just stop there, shall I?
We had a bit of a security scare. Bet you never heard about that. I shouldn’t really tell you either but, ach, the royals won’t be back for a while and I think I’m already on the do-not-approach list. It was a certain lady who made the security people fidgety. Not me.

When I say security people, I think most of them were just cops from Northern Constabulary who were told to leave their uniforms at home and come to work in their own plain clothes cars. I’ve been ordered out of some of the finest pubs in the Highlands and islands at closing time by some of these guys. Hi Davie. Nice threads, mate.

Now splogged up in buttoned-up dark two-piece suits like you used to see in J D Williams catalogue, they became jittery when a wee lad from somewhere down Leverburgh way clambered onto the fence and began drawing attention in typical schoolboy fashion.

“Hey mister, do you work for the FBI?” When that was brushed off with a weak smile, he started: “Are all you guys secret agents or what. Wow. I think you’ve a gun in your pocket. Look, I can see it. Go on, show me now. Show me, show me, show me.” Then the brat announced: “I know how to make a bomb, you know”. Well, the spooks’ smiles vanished quicker than pints at closing time when cops come calling.

Give them their due, the security team spotted the real troublemaker long before the royals arrived. She was at the gate and just happened to be talking to me. I thought I recognised her so I was polite, as always. Then she began telling me off about some of the things I write here. Proper ear-bashing I got. They must have realised I’d been set upon. The spooks ordered the potential troublemaker with the yellow jacket inside the gate where they could keep an eye on her for a while. Then she was ordered out onto the road again when the VIPs were due. Good one.

As Charles and Camilla were in the centre, I was accosted again by the yellow peril. She peered at me before she said eerily: “I have come over from the other side.” No. Can’t be. I don’t even believe in ghosts and spooky things – except ones in dark suits with bulges in their pockets – yet here I was in the Bays Centre car-park having a conversation with a real live one. Or is that a real dead one?
The dazzling apparition asked if I knew Stockinish. No, I quivered. I thought to myself the only thing I remember about that place was Mrs X telling me how her Harris granny used to warn the family to keep clear of people from there.

“Promise me faithfully you’ll never marry anyone from Stockinish,” she used to say. “They would steal the milk out of your tea. Terrible, terrible people.” She’d obviously had a bad experience with a lad from there a long time ago. By now I was feeling very strange. I told my ghostly companion straight.

“Here I am talking to someone dressed in bright yellow, who has a Hearach accent and who says she is from the other side. This is really weird.” “Isd, a chlown,” she said. “I’m Rachel Macdonald. I’m from Stockinish but now I live in Ullapool.”

Except Michelle Obama who doesn’t say very much at the best of times even when the wind is blowing her hair all over the place and she is beginning to look like a haystack and making Prince Philip have a fit of the giggles.
Or when the band starts playing the national anthem when her husband is speaking and she realises it’s all going a bit pear-shaped. Or when she’s pressed into service handing out the lettuce at posh barbecues. The look on her face between the forced smiles. Classic.

Now they are planning a film about the life of Ms Parton. However, they still haven’t found someone suitable for the role – or rather someone who is suitable to the subject of the film. They need someone who has massive, er, personality and presence. Apparently, Pamela Anderson had a couple of things in her favour but “someone” isn’t too keen on her.

The makers are getting a bit desperate. They have even considered Barbara Windsor although “someone” thinks she is far too old. Wonder who that could be? Shame, you can just see Babs swaggering on with an accent from Smoky Mountain, Tennessee, telling a bunch of cowboys to “get outta my pub”.
Er, no. I’m getting mixed up. Just forget I said that.

Reese Witherspoon was deemed unsuitable because someone said “she would need a big, old bra”. Poor girl. I am sure she could afford to get one of those if they chose her. Go on, give it to her, Doll. But no.
Someone suggested that other willowy American songbird Taylor Swift. Wee Dolly’s reaction was classic.
“You’d have to saw her legs off at the knees and get her a boob job to play me.” Oh, meeaaaow.

Now I amn’t actually sure what one of those jobs is but let’s just keep the carpentry tools away from Ms Parton for a while, eh?
Amazingly, on the list of possibles who look a little like Dolly, with your eyes closed and the curtains drawn presumably, was Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall. They had really put her on a list to ask her if she would like to audition. As if.

I can imagine the phone ringing in Clarence House and Prince Charles answering. He says she’s not in but he’ll take a message. Does he think his wife would like to play Dolly Parton in a movie? Dolly who? Well, he didn’t know but he would certainly ask. What was this Ms Parton best known for?
The songs 9 to 5, Here You Come Again and Applejack? No, he didn’t think he’d ever heard these. Anything else? I Will Always Love You. He thought he’d certainly heard the Duchess hum that one some time back.

They were not to worry about any obvious differences. They would carry out all necessary “enhancements”, the producer says. The prince is puzzled. What could that be all about? Soon after, Camilla comes in from Harrods, weighed down with shopping. She was expecting a call from that Lorna woman at the Harris Tweed Authority. Any calls while she was out?

Nope. Oh, someone phoned to see if she would play some singer in a movie. Dick Barton? Something like that. The one with the enormous hits. She could phone them back. The number was on the sideboard. Will Camilla defy convention? The world is waiting for her answer.

Actually, I think I’ll just ask her myself on Thursday. She got the call from the Harris Tweed crowd and Camilla and the prince are going to be in Stockinish down in deepest, darkest Harris to have a look round a loomshed. I think I’ll take a turn down there with Mrs X. I’ll get her to chat up their security guys – she seems to be really good at that sort of thing – and then I’ll slip into the shed while Charles is on the loom and Camilla is filling a few bobbans. I’ll just ask her outright if she’s going to go for it. Easy peasy.

If Camilla turns down this magnificent offer, they’re stuck. I was going to suggest they get Chris or Janet, two blonde bombshells at Isles FM in Stornoway. Mind you, these two would probably want too much money. So I understand Dolly’s answer may be to play herself. Brilliant. Why did no one else think of that?
One of the amazing true facts about Dolly is that she secretly entered a Dolly Parton lookalike competition – and lost. She glamed up a wee bit with exra make-up and bolstered her, er, assets even more than they were already, called herself Donalda and put her name in for it.

She paraded around pouting and strutting her stuff. However, the judges, who must have had a wee bevvy, thought there was someone else in that line-up who was even more like Dolly than Donalda. A guy called Hector. Poor thing. I don’t think she’s ever got over that one.
Talking about the plans for the film about her life, she explained there would have to be three actors; “a young Dolly, a teenage one and then maybe I could play the old one.” Well, I am no film producer but I too think it would be the old Dolly you are best suited for, Dollag. You are in your mid-60s now, aren’t you? That’s a bit of clue.

When I think about it, I don’t know how interesting this film will be. Even when she was young, Dolly came across as so goody-goody. She was never very rock and roll. When Dolly was talking about someone having good grass she was actually talking about their lawn.

NOT one to bother much with ancient traditions and superstitions myself, I was kind of surprised to find that my wife is now a devotee of at least one ancient ritual. I woke up yesterday morning and there she was – gone.

Not even a scribbled note on the pillow to say she had finally taken off with someone with a bigger bulge in his wallet than myself. I was bereft.

Tending soon afterwards to my ablutions, I looked out the bathroom window and there was Mrs X on her knees in the back garden.

When I got over the first “Oh no, the Free Church have got to her” moment, I rushed down thinking it was my own fault for letting her be so friendly with that charming Reverend Kenny I, and met her drying herself off with a towel.

She told me how she liked to follow the ancient custom by which young virgins would wash their faces in the morning dew on May Day to rid themselves of pimples and to become beautiful.

I said: “But you’re not a v-v-very young person . . .”

I stopped myself and tried again.

“You don’t have pimples, honey, those are just wrink . . . er, laughter lines.”

“And you’re beautiful, anyway,” I gulped, before she stomped off, slamming doors as she went before tripping over the dog. Oops.

We also had ancient traditions observed at the delightful wedding that we all enjoyed on Friday. And it will now be traditional for the happy couple to have a honeymoon. But where?

When a chap with a lah-di-dah accent called me a few weeks ago, he said he was looking for a get-away-from-it-all place for a happy couple in early May. Did I know any out-of-the-way places where staff wouldn’t tell tales if they recognised them?

Thespians, were they, I wondered. No, just a lad and a lass, he assured me.

Of course I could help, I said, while desperately scratching my head. I wouldn’t be here in the islands for all of the first week of May because at the weekend I’m going to see Coast, I remembered.

No, I’m not going to look at the coast. I’ll explain later.

Oh heck, there must be a hotel in the Western Isles where the staff wouldn’t know Katie Price from Kate Bush.

Found one. A discreet little hideaway where the owners do all the work and haven’t read newspapers or watched TV much for five years.

Brilliant.

Then it crossed my mind that Kate and Wills, too, may be sneaking northwards for their briefly harmonious period before the slings and arrows turned them into grumps like Victoria Beckham at a wedding. How long till his first “Calm down, dear”?

Hey, could it be them who were coming? Oh gosh.

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. We’ll never know. They’ve cancelled. Some change of plan means they aren’t coming now. Then, at the weekend, I heard on the news that William and Catherine Wales aren’t having a honeymoon just now, either. Coincidence or what?

With that other great tradition, the election, happening this week, it was all getting me so stressed that now I’ll be able to go to Coast in peace. Oh, sorry. You don’t even know what Coast is yet. You really want to know? OK.

When I say I am going to Coast I don’t mean yet another Saturday afternoon lying on Coll beach with Mrs X in our underthings, eating corned-beef sandwiches and blowing sand out of all these awkward little places where tiny grains can lodge.

I mean I am going to see Coast, the band. In Inverness.

Although the boys of the band are based south of the border, a couple of them are from an Army family and they spent some years living and going to school on Benbecula. There, seeping out of their transistors, were soul-stirring sounds from the likes of Runrig, probably Christine Primrose, too, and no doubt the nimble fingers of that box player extraordinaire, Calum Iain MacCorquodale.

Unfortunately, being English, they always thought his name was Calum Iain Mac Crocodile. It’s understandable with that strong Uist accent.

Let it go, Calum Iain.

A veritable flood of Celtic music engulfed the boys’ souls in 1980s Balivanich. They were soon hooked and have been devotees of the Sound of Flodday Island ever since.

Having been helping the lads, who are managed by Iain Bayne, the drummer in Runrig, with some of their publicity, I thought I could maybe squeeze in a tiny mention here.

If you are at a loose end and can get to Invershneggie, come and see these rockers on Saturday night. They are fantastic. I am biased, of course, but that does not make them any less fabulous.

You’ll love them. You won’t have heard so much in one package before.

Yes, they are sort of Runriggy at times. They are also a bit Big Country. They can be ever so slightly Dire Straitsy. Sometimes they are a tad Bruce Springsteeny.

Iain Bayne mentioned that he and the other Runrig guys are usually far too busy to read the P&J on a Monday. Good, I can speak my mind, then. Ssshhh, don’t tell them I said so, but these guys in Coast could be even bigger than the other part-Hebridean beat combo that turned out classic albums from Play Gaelic to my own all-time favourite, The Cutter & The Clan.

You really must go and hear Coast. What other band could have that versatility and appeal across so many musical genres? Sometimes they are very modern; sometimes they are very traditional.

I will tell you how diverse the music of Coast is. I sometimes listen to them and I can hear frontman Paul Eastham sing just like Rod Stewart or Bono from U2.

Then, at other times, I hear him sing like Calum Kennedy.

So could you and so could anybody.

MY MAN in the constitutional office tells me Uilleam and Katag may yet send out one or two late invitations to their wee wedding on Friday.

Yes, I am a sceptic about the whole thing, but one should be prepared in case one is asked to take up the seats left vacant by King Norodom Sihamoni of Cambodia, who is not now expected to attend. His missus has a hair appointment that day, or something.

So I have been looking up tips on how to be a guest at a royal wedding. It’s a really fascinating subject. One of the most important things to follow in this strict formula is to come up with the posh name you would use if you were invited to such a bit of a do.

Unless you’re an American, of course. My fellow islander Donald Trump, currently living in the US for work reasons, could also have been invited, I hear. But now that he is considering standing for president himself and is giving Barack Obama a hard time, he has been dumped.

Well, if they are looking for another islander . . .

Even if St James’s Palace writes to you as, for instance, plain old Iain Maciver, you should write back with a lah-di-dah monicker and you’ll get the invitation confirmed for a bit of nosh beside my old mate Lord Benjamin Inca Fogle Hampstead and Lord David Coco Beckham Leytonstone. No messing.

Let’s look at the instructions. First, you take the title Lord or Lady. Just take it? Yep, just start using a name that no one else has bagged. If anyone asks, just say Lord is your first name.

You then take the first name of one of your grandfathers. Fine, I’m doing well so far. You then take a name that is absolutely cherished in your family – and, yes, the name of a family pet is absolutely ideal for this purpose – and put it alongside the area you were born in.

Oh, I see. That’s what the toffs do.

There is already a Lord Carloway. If I remember right, he is actually called Colin. Hmm, I know someone who has a goldfish called Colin. I wonder if that’s how his lordship got his name? Hey, this is easy.

What next? Well, it was actually in a Glasgow hospital where I first saw the light of day. The institution was in Pollok, if my birth certificate is to be believed. I think I was there, but I don’t quite remember the details. Sorry.

And probably the pet which I remember most was Ginger. Ah Ginger, a completely misnamed lightly sandy-coloured puss.

There was something about the names my family chose for our animals. We had a few weird ones. There was a corncrake in the field beside our house. We often took its name in vain when it started its early-morning carry-on, croaking out its own name.

He was Eric. Every flippin’ morning: Eric, Eric, Eric . . .

On the basis of all that historical research, my aristocratic name would be Lord Johnny Ginger Pollok.

I like it. It makes me sound like one of these well-to-do racing drivers from the 50s and 60s.

Mrs X doesn’t like the last bit. She thinks it’s rude. Ooh, listen to her – Lady Sandie Randy X Plasterfield Prefabs.

What can I do? Drop the Pollok? Nah. I am very proud of my roots. Which is more than she is, if that bottle of hair colouring in the bathroom cabinet is anything to go by.

I suspect my Lady Muck would prefer to be hanging off the arm of someone with a name that’s grander and more distinguished. Something more manly, even.

Right, I’ll tweak it. I did have another grandfather and we had dogs, too. Can’t use Rebel, though. He died in disgrace having chased our postman and inserted his canines into the nether regions of that previously first-class male.

So I could take my posh name from our first multicoloured pet, Daisy. She was not a cow, but a collie. I told you – odd names.

Daisy was sound. Docile as anything, which was just as well, with a young, uncontrollable brat in the house who did unmentionable things to her. It was my wild wee brother, not me. I’m innocent of this one, officer.

You never heard it from me, but – because I know how Northern Constabulary types always scan this column in case I am passing on cryptic clues – if they want to nab the ghastly criminal who locked that poor animal in the wardrobe just before his parents went to bed, he’s your man.

’Twas he, too, who spoon-fed Rebel so many Haliboranges and laxatives that the poor animal was under the district nurse for a week.

No, there was no NHS for dogs back then, but she had to come in anyway, because my brat brother had also scoffed about three packets of the laxatives himself.

Officers, you’d better move fast. He is planning to flee back to his hidey-hole in distant Malaysia. In fact, he’s planning to secretly jet off today. I have a cast-iron source for this info – himself, he told me over a dram a couple of nights ago.

Meanwhile, if I receive a last-minute invitation to replace someone on Friday who has dropped out because of an uprising in their country, I shall be accompanying Lady X to the festivities.

What? You say Daisy is not manly enough for you in the surname, dear?

Fine. Let’s drop Daisy.

Wait a minute. I remember we used to have a daft cockerel that used to run round in circles in the same direction because one leg was longer than the other. I will take my posh name after him.

Lady X, you shall go to the ball – if that invitation does come – and you shall be the charming companion of Lord Angus Leftie Pollok.

IT’S good to stop now and again and peer into the future. Nothing wrong with speculating about what we will be doing 10 or 20 years from now.

We may have Charles, or William, as king. The Queen can’t go on forever – however much it may seem to poor Charles that she can.

Of course, the succession might skip the current heir altogether. Charles’s complicated private life may mean it goes straight to the “Hair to the Throne”, as he is being called by unkind newspaper people. Like me.

So what if he is losing his regal mane faster than a ball of dandelion seeds in a Force 10 gale? He has it all going on, so why should he be bothered?

However, it may come as a shock to the rest of us when Kojak becomes our sovereign ruler.

Bet you Wills will wear the crown more than his grannie to hide his untufted bonce.

So let us consider the follicle. So tiny as a single strand, our hair is immensely important for those who have a good headful, an indefinable tool that we use to signify that we are cool by having it long, that we are playful by flicking it or that we don’t want to be somewhere by claiming we have to stay in and wash it.

That excuse works much better for some than others. Like Wills.

I refer to the number of times I organised a surprise candlelit dinner for Mrs X in those far-off days when I was trying to impress her.

I would tidy my flat – well, scrape the biggest lumps of lard off last week’s dinner plates and shove them under the sink – and prepare the most sumptuous feast that you could pluck from a Safeway supermarket freezer.

Then I would call her up, only for her to say she wasn’t coming out. She was washing her hair.

What? Again? I had to tell her I had already defrosted a pack of Super Saver sausages. They were on special offer.

Hah, for some reason, she still wasn’t interested. Gutted, I was.

That girl must have really filthy hair, I thought. If she is going to be at it all night with the shampoo when she could be here with me and a large pack of Super Savers, maybe I had just had a lucky escape.

It was all a ruse, of course, just to try to keep me interested. It wasn’t long before the allure of my meaty treat brought her galloping round to mine.

Not being a skinflint, I really gave her a great evening. We were at it all night. You’d be surprised just how many sausages Safeway managed to squeeze into a Super Saver pack back then.

It just shows that you can get great value without spending a fortune if you know what you’re doing.

That was borne out with confirmation that a test involving hundreds of people at the Edinburgh Science Festival showed few could taste the difference between cheap plonk and expensive wine costing about £30 a bottle.

People who spend into double figures for Chateau this and Classico that are just paying for the label. They are but sheep who fall for the old marketing trick of over-pricing stuff to give a fake impression of quality.

A well-known Gael often boasts of never drinking wine costing less than £40 – and that’s not the table price, either. And a fellow-islander here on Lewis spent more than £1,000 on a case of Cabernet Sauvignon last festive season. Jesus Christ: would he have approved?

All fantastic news, even for part-time connoisseurs of the grape fermenté, like myself. We are not cheapskates; we appreciate quality at the right price. Anything else is a waste.

I have long known that all wine sellers have a big secret. Usually tucked well in on the bottom shelf, this is the label they will never recommend to Joe Bloggs but which is for those specially-favoured patrons. Unfortunately, as their most frequent and highest-spending customers are rich middle-class plonkies with frazzled palates, which of course in the Outer Hebrides merely means they work for the council, that is also a terrible waste of a fine drop.

Yes, even your local supermarket will have the same secret policy. They will rarely admit it, but there is always an incredibly cheap bottle that does not taste like the grapes were gently squeezed along with the contents of several cats’ bladders. It is certainly true here in Stornoway, although often only senior staff will know.

Ever the public servant, I would be happy to share with you the names on the labels to look for, but I am worried they could sell out so quickly that there would be none left for me. So, to slow down the rush, maybe I should ask for a small consideration for such valuable and possibly life-changing information.

What should I ask for? A case of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, maybe? It’s not really for myself, you see. Just for the purposes of research.

While I am on the subject of monumental wastes of resources, despite the avalanche of correspondence since last week, I am not going on again about the celebrations on the 29th for the royal wedding.

All I said was people should be allowed to do what they want and that council workers should be grateful they are getting a completely undeserved day off just because they have irresponsible bosses who care little for the suffering of ordinary taxpayers and the people in this country who actually work.

That’s all I said. Let it go.

In fact, when I think about it, I didn’t even say that. But I’m saying it now.

Yes, I’ve had letters saying I should organise alternative street parties without union flags and with big banners saying “What Wedding?” and “Kate Who?”

Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy that day.

I’m washing my hair.