Tag Archives: football

Why we must not underestimate the clever and talented octopus

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WHEN you are young, you believe anything and everything you are told by anyone older than you. For example, irresponsible adults made me really superstitious and I believed all kinds of nonsense. I would never walk under ladders, I stayed in bed every Friday the 13th and I would always throw salt over my shoulder into the devil’s eyes.

It was only a matter of time, I thought, until UFOs landed on the green in front of Lews Castle and I so believed Free Presbyterians I knew back then were right to shun TV and cook their Sunday dinner on a Saturday to make sure they had a comfortable time in the next life. We Free Churchers were so sloppy compared to them. Way to go.

Now I’m not so sure. Obviously, I am still expecting to see some weird and utterly unintelligible creatures shuffling about on the castle green this week, but that will be just after the bar closes at the Hebridean Celtic Festival.

So I am still struggling with my belief in this octopus called Paul that has predicted the results at the World Cup.

Of course, it is all coincidence, probably, and the stories just made me hungry, thinking of a plate of calamari.

Paul at work

Being the big-hearted fellow that he is, Cameraman had a word with his big brother. Skelly, major, is a fisher of men. So, on Saturday evening, in comes Cameraman with a carrier bag full of octoplops.

These guys are both real Christians. I was very grateful. Then reality hit. What do you do with 40 tentacles late on a Saturday?

As with Paul, I first decided to name my next five dinners. Julian, Dick, Anne, Georgina and Timmy – after Enid Blyton’s Famous Five.

Technology means there is little about food preparation that can stump me. I found websites showing, in all its slithery detail, how to clean and prepare octopus.

I was to sort of turn each one inside out and remove the beak. Georgina has a beak? Is she a cross between a denizen of the deep and a parrot? Sure enough, I found it.

Dick was difficult. Looking like a bundle of slimy rags in need of a good rinse, his beak was hidden deep in its bits and bobs.

So, after preparing myself with an alcohol sanitiser – I find Trawler Rum is easier to drink than the stuff they offer in every hospital corridor nowadays – I put on my best surgical gown (actually Mrs X’s best apron), pulled on a pair of those specialised rubberoid surgical gloves, reached for the sharpest bread knife in the drawer and prepared to make my first incision.

Suddenly, ssschhwelppp. Dick was off skiting along the linoleum. Maybe the cephalopod mollusc had somehow slithered back on to this mortal coil. Maybe it decided the worktop in my back porch was not the healthiest place to be then. Maybe my surgical gloves, which were actually Mrs X’s Marigolds, were too wet and slippery. Whatever, have you tried picking up a partly-operated-on octopus? Like eating soup with a fork it was.

I then chopped the heads off before tugging out the really yucky, squishy bits. Sorry if I’m confusing you with all these medical terms.

To get them chewy but not rubbery, the secret is to boil for an hour before sauteeing and adding garlic, mushrooms and baby tomatoes. That’s now done and after leaving overnight I will have Georgina and Dick for a wee supper when Corrie is on tonight.

As no one else in this house will come within half a mile of me when I’m scoffing my seafood surprises, it may not be that wee.

Everyone is going on about Paul, that blinking German octopus. There was even a suggestion that he might be lined up as a surprise housemate on Big Brother. Well, he’ll need an income now that the World Cup is over. Otherwise, he could end up on squid row.

The octopus thing has even reached Stornoway. A guy walked into the Clachan Bar on Friday with one under his arm. He plonked it on the bar and announced that, like Paul, his was also a very talented octopus. His was not psychic, though, but was very musical and could play any instrument. He was prepared to put a bet of £20 on it.

Not believing a word of it, a fellow from Parkend grabbed his guitar and put it down beside the octopus, who by this time was on his second packet of prawn cocktail crisps.

Two tentacles darted out and, in seconds, the octopus had the Clachan jumping as he strummed a rollicking version of The Fields of Athenry. Unlikely, I know. But they probably thought the octopus could be cheaper than that one-woman band, Sandie.

It was better than any of the legends – Clapton, Cobain, Costello. The man from the end of the park dug deep and paid his £20.

Another guy from south Harris jumped up with an accordion. Same thing. The octopus played the box no bother. His tentacles flew up and down the keys better than Fergie Macdonald and Iain MacCorquodale combined. The Hearach lost his two tenners.

A third guy from Laxdale produced a set of bagpipes. With a squeal of delight, the octopus wrenched it off him and in seconds his long arms and suckers were all over the drones, the bag and the chanter. A hush descended. What was the octopus going to play? The Skye Boat Song? The Water is Wide? Shoals of Herring?

The slithery sea creature suddenly put it down with a confused look in its bulging eyes.

“Ha,” the Laxdale man shouted. “You can’t do it, can you? Haoi you, geez ma 20 notes. Now.”

The octopus looked up at him out of the corner of one of his eyes and said: “Don’t you worry, cove. Me and this one’ll make sweet music together. Just give me a minute to figure out how to get her pyjamas off.”

Why I predict some lads could get bashed in Carloway tonight

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SO, HER Majesty is forking out a cool £300,000 to hire the former MV Columba. 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.

Inverness Charlie Thistle

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Any Highland copper will tell you the area has in recent times been awash with some very nasty life-altering drugs. Big-time pushers are languishing in the pokey because of the sterling efforts of HM Plod of Invershneckie. That is why it is more important than ever for those role models who north youngsters look up to to set fine examples. Musicians and soccer clubs, being the pastimes of choice for many of our young darlings, must be high on that list.So what kind of dunderheads are on the board of Inverness Charlie Thistle? The creatures who inhabit the boardroom of the alleged pride of the north obviously have no policy whatsoever on dealing with drug abuse by their players. Their mindless dithering and waffling when wide-eyed player Richie Hart got into the brown stuff for having white stuff to mess up his already inflated head showed what a poor example Caley is to impressionable youngsters.

Clueless club chairman Alan Savage and the other gormless directors, had they put down their G&Ts and been thinking clearly, should have suspended hapless Hart when they found out what he did with his undeserved credit card. No messing about. Clear message to other players, fans and the kids who insist on aping players, some of whom are just self-obsessed nyaffs. Instead, they hummed and ha-ed and sat on their fat little fingers. Like other small-brained species, the Caley directors buried their heads in the mud of the Moray Firth. Now the Highland’s main football team is reduced to spouting drivel and double-speak.

The cowardly club chiefs confirmed they had interviewed Hart. And? And they did nothing. Nothing at all. Because of what he told them, they “… agreed to leave the matter until the allegations were addressed in court.” Did the premier player admit having a Class A drug or not? No information. They even had the barefaced cheek to claim: “The club would like to reassure the club’s commercial partners, supporters and the public that the club adopts a very firm stance in relation to the use and/or possession of drugs.”

And/or? Firm stance? The club this, the club that. Three ‘clubs’ in one sentence all for a blatantly bogus claim not borne out by any positive action. That is just rank gobbledegook from a jobsworth and/or idiot who, going by the verbal diarrhoea, must walk as if he has a broomstick up his trousers and/or backside. Their stance is not firm but wishy-washy. Just rubbish and/or garbage. If they had taken a firm stance, Hart would be home a long time ago listening to his CDs, not cutting out A-class drugs on them.

The sheriff showed that the club’s statement is nonsense. His Lordship said Hart admitted his guilt early so he cut his fine. If he admitted it early to police, I bet he admitted it to Caley as well, so he should have been sent home from the off. If, however, he lied about his crackhead ways to his employers at that interview, he should not have been suspended this week but given his P45 on the court steps. Simple. Caley, of course, have only now got round to suspending him and, … er, that’s it.

Either way, the reputation of a club that has been making huge progress in sporting endeavour is now stained. Their lame message is now that cocaine is okay at Thistle Caley. The club image will remain stained for a long time by the hypocrisy of its directors and the supporters should expect to see some of them take the rap for it. From what I hear, I probably should not hold my breath but if those commercial partners that ICT are so fond of sucking up to have any decency, the sound of heads being knocked together and/or rolling should soon be reverberating under the Kessock Bridge.