Well done, Ruth Davidson. The election of the brand new leader of the Scottish Tories is a turn-up for a whole lot of reasons. She’s not old, she’s not boring, she’s not stinking rich and she’s not a man. This may be a good time to remind her that she failed at the first hurdle, as far as I’m concerned. When she came up to Stornoway to shake hands with all the important people she could find a few weeks ago, she didn’t come to see me.
Poor show. I’ve marked your card, missus. Her people told my people that that some other people hadn’t allocated any time for a wee chat. For goodness sake, I’d got the custard creams in specially. Maybe I should go easy on her. She is not just a former journalist, a Sunday school teacher but she is also a kickboxer. Ouch. Oh well, I’m sure the custard creams will keep until Johann Lamont appears. She is one of the Labour leadership candidates and she officially announces her campaign today. It will be lamentable of Lamont if she doesn’t make it here for a chinwag.
Murdo Fraser’s people were far more on the ball. They said they were happy for him to tell me and you, dear reader, what he was about when he came up. Except he didn’t. Methinks party bosses feel there are too few Tories here to make it worth the air fare. Nonsense. If they went to Goathill they’d find many a blue-blood. It’s crammed with very conservative Conservatives. Even my mate Cameraman has gone all Tory boy of late. He’s now sporting a blue car, a blue boat and, when he’s moaning about the prices, as he does all the time, he feels very blue.
Shame that Fraser didn’t make the effort to press some Hebridean flesh. I’d all sorts of deep and probing questions lined up for him. However, I am assured his failure to travel northwards was nothing to do with the fact I might have grilled him over why he quit the Free Presbyterians, then the APCs and when was he expecting to quit the Church of Scotland which I suspect is now far too namby-pamby for the likes of him.
Even that Davidson woman is a member. Anyone else think there are going to be ructions soon? Mr Fraser, I know someone who is selling what cricketers call a box. It’s good protection in case of accidental blows somewhere tender from someone practising martial arts. Such as, say, kickboxing?
So why do I feel so sure Labour hopeful Johann Lamont will make it here? Because a new street bears her name. As assistant deputy acting communities minister, or something, she helped fund a youth centre. Labour types somehow managed to get the address Lamont Lane for the new Bridge Centre because the wee dirt track beside it was unnamed. They said it was fitting recognition of Ms Lamont’s efforts. Nothing to do with the fact that it’s opposite the SNP office? “Is it? Oh, nothing to do with that at all.”
Just like remote, exposed, storm-blasted, South Uist has nothing to do with sunny Govan. They are now twinned by organisations which some think have too much time and cash on their hands. South Uist, or what’s left of it due to coastal erosion, is nothing like the inner-city village, nestling on the banks of the cool, calm Clyde.
Down Lochboisdale way is scenic, tranquil and an oasis in the maelstrom that is everyday life at the bottom end. Tourists come and stand in awe at the view out the loch, disturbed only by the roar and rumble of work on the new pier in the distance. Meander among the populace on a Friday evening and you may hear the occasional clink of whisky glasses. Another week of hard but honest toil is toasted in the Lochboisdale Hotel as the Atlantic laps the quay. “Och well, let’s hope we get a few more weeks out of this part of the contract. Slainte mhath.”
Govan, on the other hand, is loud and brash. Tourists come and stand in awe, thinking how lucky they are not to live there, disturbed by the roar of the subway and the rumble of expense claims being filled in at the BBC Scotland headquarters in the distance. If you dare get out of your car after 3pm on a Friday on Glasgow’s south side, you may be startled by the rat-tat-tat constant popping sounds. Fear not, ‘tis just the weekly ritual of champagne bottles being uncorked in someone’s lap in Pacific Quay. “Ooh, Ms Bird; your banter with the forecaster was simply marvellous, dahling. Bottoms up, everyone.”
Actually, I’ve changed my mind. There are such very strong simlarities between these communities that I must heap praise on Lochboisdale Amenity Trust, the Postcode Lottery’s Dream Fund and Oxfam for setting up such a unique and extremely useful partnership. Maybe Uist and Govan are indeed similar in some ways.
Hold on though, Govan is best-known for Rab C Nesbitt, that deadbeat, self-styled philosopher and style guru most often associated with lived-in pinstripe suits, plimsolls and holey underwear. South Uist has no one like that, surely? Well, I only see the local councillor Gerry Macleod in his business rig-out at the White House in Stornoway. However, put a can of Special Brew in his hand, stuff him into a string vest and, yes, I suppose, he could, well, maybe …
