If The Chancellor's Unmentionables Must Be Mentioned, We Should Be Thankful That They Come From Marks and Spencer

Much has been written about the Chancellor, Mr Brown, over this past week, and most of it would benefit from being unwritten, if such a thing were possible. Mr Brown has been castigated for not smiling, and cremated for smiling too much. He is condemned when he does not act and mocked when he does. With disturbing frequency, he is described as "too Scottish"; a criticism one might make of Sir Harry Lauder, but not, surely, of the Chancellor, even if his nickname in the unpopular (that is to say, the former broadsheet) press, is Irn Broon.
Without venturing into the politics of the matter, I am rather fond of Mr Brown. He has what my mother Mrs Elder (or Ma'am) liked to call gravadlax, and - unlike, say, Mr Tommy Sheridan - is aware of the value of a nine bob note.
It is, of course, a symptom of the times that our politicians are judged on their appearances rather than their policies. Thus, while I find it distasteful that Mr Brown feels the need to invoke fatherhood as a symbol of his late entry to the human race, and I regret his decision to have his teeth improved with cosmetic caps, I find myself cheered by the news that, in the matter of unmentionables, he still worships at the altar of St Michael. This is no trivial matter. The premiership of Mr John Major was undone not by his incompetence, or the fact that he had all the charisma of a speak-your-weight machine, but by Mr Alastair Campbell's suggestion that he tucked his shirt into his unmentionables; a reasonable habit, but a profoundly unfashionable one.
There are, of course, hazards in the umentionable department at Marks and Spencer - not least that monstrous regiment of women who spend their days tugging testily at the joists of the smalls they are buying for their defeated and downcast husbands - but there is something reassuring about the Chancellor's choice. To put things in context: I was told recently by a political correspondent that Dr John Reid is in the habit of "going commando". I trust and pray that this description refers to his temper.

World Champions Are Made Of Marmalade, And Other Uplifting Thoughts

I am not, by habit, often to be found at film premieres, but I was happy to attend the screening of The Flying Scotsman at the Edinburgh International Film Festival. I must say, I found it to be a most peculiar event, not least because it was my first visit to a "multiplex" cinema, Cineworld in Fountainbridge.
The multiplex is every bit as ugly as its name would suggest. As architecture, it is roughly comparable with a cowshed at the Royal Highland Show; an effect which is compounded by the inclusion, near the foyer, of a brightly-lit trough selling luminous candies and sugar string by the hundred-weight. I have always been suspicious of foodstuffs which are served in a bucket, and I saw no reason to tarry here.
There were speeches by various worthies before the film, and I enjoyed them to the point where I found myself drifting into a fine sleep. When I awoke, the film festival director, an Australian, had taken to the stage in a leather kilt, which was worrying, because the Senior Retainer, Mr Jack McConnell, was in the audience, and he might have got ideas.
The film was quite decent. There was no fighting or amorous behaviour, and a good deal of cycling. One detail particularly impressed me. The cyclist, Mr Graeme Obree, whose story this was, apparently became the fastest cyclist in the world by eating marmalade sandwiches. Insofar as I am capable of being uplifted, I was.

Mr Tommy Sheridan And The Ethics Of Decimalisation

Many aspects of Mr Tommy Sheridan's theatrical triumph continue to puzzle me, but above all I am baffled his use of the phrase "as dodgy as a ten bob note" to describe the minute of the meeting at which he did, or did not, admit to visiting what my mother, Mrs Elder (or Ma'am) would have called "a den of iniquity" in Manchester.
Mr Sheridan is old enough to remember decimalisation, and will thus be aware that until its withdrawal in 1969 the ten bob note (pictured here, with the Ugandan president Idi Amin) was a perfectly respectable item of currency, with a value of fifty of your new pence.
True, in the matter of money, as in law, everything is interpretation, and it is my understanding that no banknote of any denomination is legal tender in Scotland. There is also, in history, a seven-bob note - the seven shilling bills which were issued by the Ballindalloch Cotton Works in 1830, three of which were redeemable for a guinea.
But this is pedantry. In the language of cliche - a currency in which Mr Sheridan may be considered a millionaire - a nine-bob note is "dodgy", while ten-bob is bankable, sound, and reliable in every way.

Mr Fear Of Onions, Lord Olivier, And That Torquemada Of The Tanning Booth, Mr Tommy Sheridan

   I am officially dumfoonert. A few days ago, I was reading about the hypnotist and "motivational speaker" Mr Paul McKenna, who sued a newspaper over scurillous reports that he had purchased a "bogus degree" from La Salle University, Louisiana. Mr Victor Lewis-Smith wrote in The Mirror: "Anyone could be fully doctored by La Salle within months (no previous qualifications needed), just so long as they could answer the following question correctly: 'Do you have $2,615, sir?'."
While the university was accredited to a fraudulent body called The Council For Post-Secondary Christian Education, the court found in favour of Mr McKenna, because it could not be shown that he was aware that he had purchased a bogus qualification.
About Mr McKenna, I know little, except to say that I run screaming from the room every time he, or any other hypnotist, appears on the television. This is a matter of faith as much as superstition, as I was once humiliated by a touring hypnotist at the Harbour Pavilion, North Berwick, who convinced me to eat an onion in the belief that it was a clootie dumpling. Having accomplished this task for the entertainment of the assembled, I was snapped back to reality by a slippery click of the hypnotist's cold fingers, yet still I am troubled by flashbacks and bilious attacks every time I see a jar of pickled shallots. I am also convinced that the hypnotism was to blame for the return of the night terrors - a complaint I endured in childhood - and my subsequent arrest, in the grounds of the Peebles Hydro, wearing only Polyveldt shoes and a "kiss me quick" hat.
But, like Ronnie Corbett, trapped in a supermarket trolley with a wonky wheel, I digress. I had intended to write about the courtroom shenanigans involving that Torquemada of the tanning booth, Mr Tommy Sheridan.
I have spent several days in the court observing this peculiar case, and I am unable to suppress the suspicion that, due to a mix-up in his Filofax, Mr Sheridan believes he is performing on the festival Fringe. If he was, I am in no doubt he would win an award, for the world of drama would struggle to invent a character as overstated or ridiculous. It is as if Mr Burt Lancaster had taken on the role played by Mr Henry Fonda in 12 Angry Men and played it with the animal confidence of an acrobat.
Of course, Mr Fonda was on the jury. Mr Sheridan is in front of them, defending his own reputation in an ever more baroque manner.
Without wishing to challenge the laws of sub judice, I am reminded of an anecdote once told about Lord (then plain "Sir Larry") Olivier, an actor whose reputation and self-confidence made direction impossible. Sir Larry was cast as the lead in a play, the story of which turned on the revelation that his character was homosexual. Yet in rehearsals, the great man was flouncing and mincing so much that his colleagues were driven to despair. None of their lines made sense if Sir Larry was so obviously scented with lavender. The play was redundant. Eventually, the director summoned the courage to tackle his leading man,while the rest of the cast cowered behind a curtain, awaiting the explosion. But Sir Larry was unabashed. "Dear boy," he exclaimed with a heavy lisp. "I like to start it big, and then I rrrrr-rein it in."
Far be it from me to give advice to a man such as Mr Sheridan, but I think he might, in the interests of plausibility, like to rein it in.

With Global Warming, The End Of The World Is Nigh, But That Is No Reason To Go Shopping In Your Unmentionables, Sir

These days, barely a day goes by without a warning about global warming, and its dire effects. As a matter of temperament, I am rather in favour of this: the end, if not exactly nigh, is undoubtedly lurking around the corner with a baseball bat. But I do wonder why - if catastrophe is so obviously imminent - we do nothing about it. There is no moratorium on sales of motor cars, cheap air travel is promoted and airports extended, supermarket food is transported around the planet in refrigerated containers, air-conditioning in the summer is followed by outdoor heaters in the autumn, central heating is the norm, and shop windows and public buildings are illuminated at night, as if to mock the shortage of energy which has left the western world indebted to the Middle East, thus necessitating American intervention in areas of politics about which it knows nothing and cares less.
But, like Ronnie Corbett after an unsucessful experiment with gestalt therapy, I digress. My point is temperatures: like hemlines, they are creeping up. Am I the only person to have noticed that this has happened since our weatherpersons started using Celsius, which I still prefer to call Centigrade, if only because the word sounds like a brand of refrigerator coolant?
I am old enough to remember the effects of decimalisation. In the days of pounds, shillings and pence, things were cheaper, and the population was required to have a working grasp of arithmetic. Decimalisation, and the subsequent introduction of pocket calculators, ended all that. Prices were rounded up, and the British housewife - so used to weighing apples and pears in multiples of twelve - found herself weighed down with halfpenny pieces which were useful only for fraying the pockets of her husband's moleskins. Rampant inflation followed, like children after the gala day pipe band.
The same had happened with temperatures. Centigrade has been with us for 30 years, but most of still like to hear heat expressed in the old money, Fahrenheit. Yesterday, parts of Britain were so hot that there was a shortage of electricity, presumably because of the energy required to refrigerate the nation's beer. The roads in some areas were salted, to stop them melting. Today is hotter yet.
Certainly, this is worrying, but it is not the end of the planet which perturbs me most. In some parts of Midlothian - Dalkeith - the men already wear little more than their underpants during the summer months. I do not care to imagine what will happen if the mercury keeps rising.

Mr Jeremy Paxman, That Irksome Scunner Of The Scots, Drives A Battered Vauxhall Astra Into The War On Neds

   Further evidence - as if any were needed - of the ineffectiveness of the War on Neds has been provided by BBC2's Newsnight. The programme drove a Vauxhall Astra around Scotland festooned with the flag of St George, as part of a serious investigation into the problem of anti-English racism. (Translation for readers in Caledonia: In an attempt to have some knockabout fun with the Jocks, a reporter was sent North with a mission to be abused).
The experiment was successful. Somewhere in the East End of Glasgow, a gang of neds set upon the parked Astra, tearing its flags off, jumping on the bonnet, and smashing the windscreen.
Last night, in Newsnight's second report into this incident, that Scunner of the Scots, Mr Jeremy Paxman, asked one of the people in the SNP who is not Mr Alex Salmond whether the car would have been vandalised if it had been decorated with the flag of Trinidad and Tobago. I would like to be able to report the reply of the SNP chump, but I decided that my life would be more fulfilled if I turned off the television and took an overdose of Lithium instead.
But what, really, did the report prove? At most, it showed that if a television crew drives past a colony of neds in a ridiculous vehicle and then leaves said vehicle abandoned in the street, it will be attacked. One does not need to be Sir David Attenborough to predict this; a similar effect could be observed by leaving a banana wagon untended in the middle of Blair Drummond safari park, if the park has gibbons, which I suspect it does not. But the link with racism is tenuous. The violence is territorial.
I had a similar experience several years ago, when working on a community drama Mr James Hogg's Confessions of a Justified Sinner. The dress-rehearsal was almost complete - we were working our way through the final scene, in which Mr Hogg's death by hiccups was rendered as a honky tonk anthem, complete with yodeling and pedal steel guitar - when I became aware of a commotion in the street. Naturally, I waited until the final chorus was sung before venturing outside the Pilton Triangle to investigate. At first I could see nothing wrong. The scheme was dark and quiet, apart from the pack of dogs running round a burning police car. I drove home relieved, allowing myself a small yodel of satisfaction as I motored past the Rizla Garage at Crewe Toll. But in the morning, as I clambered into my vehicle, I noticed that someone had drawn on the bonnet a cartoon of an erect male member in the moment of ejaculation.
It is difficult to say what was more embarrassing: ignoring the graffito, or trying to scrub it off. But I do know that I got some funny looks at the traffic lights, and that if I had parked my obscenely-decorated Morris Minor anywhere in the New Town it would have towed away, crushed, and sold to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art as a symbol of moral depravity.

The Neds Have Taken Over The Executive, And Mr McConnell Is Being Measured For A Burberry Mini-Kilt

Scottish Culture
Originally uploaded by Herschell Hershey.

Often in life, I have the feeling that I have missed a meeting. This sensation comes from my inbuilt punctiliousness, and is rarely based on fact. Far from missing meetings, I chair them, take minutes, and sometimes attend them, even when they have been cancelled. But still the eerie sensation persists that there are mysterious forces at work, changing the landscape when no one is looking.
How, for example, did I miss the official opening of the Scottish Executive's "War on Neds"? It is an event I would have enjoyed, as the Senior Retainer, Mr McConnell, would surely have dressed appropriately, in a Burberry mini-kilt. Perhaps there was a reception, sponsored by the Monks of Buckfast.
Do not misunderstand: I am not against this initiative. For years I have been of the opinion that if neds cannot be drafted into the armed forces to do their national service, then national service should be done unto them.
It is a simple enough idea. Neds are a self-defining group, with their peaked caps, their "shell suits" and their fighting dogs on strings. If there is any doubt about whether someone belongs to this objectionable clan, they could be held in captivity until neddish tendencies are observed. Only if they manage to go for, say, six months without spitting, cursing, or removing their t-shirts at the first hint of sunshine, should they be released back into the community. As a "halfway house" these un-neds might be encouraged to stay in Haddington for a while, with the other ex-Glaswegians.
But now the bad news. The war is being lost. True, our elected officials, with Mr McConnell at the head, have used the FIFA World Cup as an excuse to demonstrate an affinity for the mindless xenophobia of the Provisional wing of the Tartan Army, which has been supporting the "Anyone But England" team at the tournament. In doing so, they have reflected Scottishness at its most small-minded and pathetic - the very definition of Neddish behaviour.
The Herald is right: the neds have taken over the asylum. When they come, we will hear them first by the clanking of their cheap golden chains.

When Looking For A Deerstalker, It Pays To Know The Difference Between A Stoat And A Weasel

Peebles fashions, with stag and weasel (could be stoat)
Originally uploaded by Herschell Hershey.

For many years now I have been in the habit of travelling into Edinburgh to do my shopping; for vests, mostly. It has been a matter of habit, rather than convenience, and has continued against the growing realisation that something terrible has happened to the shops in the capital. Without wishing to betray my age by waxing nostalgic for Binns, Patrick Thomson's, and the C&A carrier bag that resembled a Rorschach blot, I am surely not the only person to have noticed that Princes Street has become a tacky arcade selling only cheap shoes and remaindered books.
In days of yore, I could have spent a day in Woolworth's at the East End, contemplating the Pick'n'mix, before relaxing with a game of putting in Princes Street Gardens, emboldened by the skirl from the bagpiping minister, who was - if memory serves - a high heid yin in the Orange Lodge. Now there is no respite from hideous commerce, and the only note of curiosity on the street is the man holding the sign which reads "Golf Sale". At one time, Princes Street was patrolled by sallow-faced individuals prophesying the end of the universe; now it tempts the damned with checked trousers and lemon v-necks.
I have written before about the decline of Jenners. The rot set in with the establishment of a fashion boutique at the back of the shop, run by the feckless for the effete, with a spectators' gallery serving "cappcuccino" and overpriced biscuits. Since Frasers took over, things have not improved. A man could die looking for ordinary unmentionables in 100% cotton.
Why, though, did I bother? In the Men's Dept of Veitch's, Peebles has all the modern styles a gentleman of substance could ever want. Most of them are hardwearing, and the majority will give off an odd odour in the rain. But the man who shops at Veitch's will never go in, or out, of fashion.
Also, as this photograph from Mr Hershey shows, it is one of the few shops to utilise woodlands creatures in its window displays.

They Tuck You Up, Your Mum And Dad: Swearing On The BBC - Part 57

Yesterday, on Radio 4's The World at One, the BBC broadcast the "f-word". They repeated the trick on the television news at 10pm. At 7pm, Channel 4 News broadcast the same clip, but chose to bleep the word, which was, nevertheless, identifiable.
The context of this lunge into industrial language was the press conference given by Mr Mohammed Abdul Kahar and his brother Mr Abul Koyair, who were arrested in Forest Gate, after police suspected their home of being a terrorist bomb factory. Mr Kahar, who was shot in the raid, was quoting the abuse he claims to have suffered from a policeman.
The plight of Mr Kahar is unenviable, but did the BBC need to broadcast his words without modification? This occurred on the same day that Mr Chris Moyles, a "disc jockey", was condemned for describing his female listeners as "dirty whores" on the Radio 1 breakfast show, after an item in which he asked them to admit to urinating in the shower. (Radio 1 has now introduced a system of fines for its presenters, and not before time. If Mr Tony Blackburn had been fined for Arnold the dog, we might not be in this mess.)
On Desert Island Discs last week, Ms Sue Lawley urged Mr Armando Iannucci to repeat the catchprase uttered by Mr Peter Capaldi in his political comedy, The Thick of It. Mr Iannucci duly did, and the airwaves were filled with bleeps, causing Mr Iannucci to joke that the listeners would imagine they had just heard the pips. (For the record, the catchphrase is: "Come the **** in, or shut the **** up.") I recall an earlier incident on Desert Island Discs, where Ms Lawley frightened the actor, Mr Richard Griffiths, by repeatedly urging him to repeat on air the line of dialogue which is often shouted at him by fans of the film Withnail and I. Fortunately, Mr Griffiths was composed enough to avoid regurgitating the famous line, "Uncle Monty, you terrible ****."
We have come a long way since Mr Kenneth Tynan first uttered the f-word on British television in 1965, and was rebuked by Mrs Mary Whitehouse (pictured, with Mr Mick Jagger). In a letter to HM, The Queen, Mrs Whitehouse suggested that Mr Tynan "ought to have his bottom spanked."
These days, Mrs Whitehouse's remark would prompt a spin-off series on Channel 4.

England Pants: Official (NB: Not suitable for children. Or, indeed, adults)

England pants
Originally uploaded by Herschell Hershey.

In the spirit of international co-operation and tolerance (plus a sweet tooth), I was prepared to embrace the England doughnuts, described below, as a welcome side-effect of this FIFA World Cup. I am less sure about these unmentionables, photographed by my friend, Mr Hershey.

The Glazed Doughnut Of English Nationalism - A World Cup Symbol Of Cross-border Co-operation?

As the FIFA World Cup approaches with all the charm of a locust storm, there will, I am sure, remain a hardcore of fanatics who imagine that the tournament has something to do with sport and the Corinthian spirit, when it is actually a commercial enterprise in which the shallow hopes of the world's downtrodden are inflated (and then deflated) in a choreographed conspiracy of commerce.
Not that all commerce is bad. On a recent reconnaissance mission to England, I came across those iced delights in the window of Greggs the baker's, a shop I had mistakenly imagined to be Scottish, so perfectly do its cheese and onion pasties fit into the national cuisine. (The "cheese" - a kind of thermonuclear paste of uncertain constitution - has a particularly Caledonian bouquet.)
I suspect the First First Minister, the late Mr Donald Dewar (nickname "Gannet"), would have appreciated these cakes, despite their national allegiance. Perhaps the Chancellor already does. My contacts at the Treasury canteen insist that, while Mr Brown often selects a lunch plate with salad, he can be relied upon to return to the serving hatch for chips and a bun.
Memo to the Foreign Office: if national identity was expressed in cakes, there would be fewer wars (or fatter soldiers).

World Cup Apathy Approaches Fever Pitch: An Englishman Argues For His Country's Defeat

The debates about the merits of Mr John Prescott have prompted many commentators to compare him to that late son of Nairn, Mr (later Viscount) Willie Whitelaw, who was memorialised by Mrs (later Lady) Thatcher with the worrying remark "everyone needs a Willie".
Mr Whitelaw made his own contribution to the gaiety of the nation during the 1974 General Election, when he accused the Labour Party of "going around the country, stirring up apathy". Logically, this was impossible, but sentimentally, it was undeniable. (Sir Menzies Campbell is, as I write, demonstrating that apathy can be induced).
My own apathy has been stirred by the ludicrous attention which is being given to the FIFA World Cup, and as the kick-off approaches, it is at fever pitch. The interventions of the Senior Retainer, Mr Jack McConnell, who has attempted to make himself both newsworthy and nationalistic (in a way that has no consequences) by declaring his support for Trinidad and Tobago, have only served to increase my ire.
In this context, I was amused to read the entry on the journal Stumbling and Mumbling, in which an Englishman argues in favour of his country's failure at the tournament.

The Prime of Mr Ronald Neame, Director Of Jean Brodie And The Poseidon Adventure

I have written before of my admiration for the film director and cameraman, Mr Ronald Neame, whose work included contributions to Great Expectations, Brief Encounter, Tunes of Glory and (his least favourite, but most successful picture), The Poseidon Adventure. He deserves to be remembered fondly in Scotland for directing Ms Muriel Spark's novel, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. An agreeable interview with Mr Neame can be heard for a limited time by clicking here.

Mr Michael Powell, The Scotsman Editor, And A Beautiful Premonition Of Doom

I spent a grand afternoon at the Athenian Hall watching Mr Michael Powell's splendid 1937 film, The Edge of the World. The film is a beautiful work of cinematography, made more colourful by being shot in black-and-white, and concerns the slow death of the fictional Hebridean island of Hirta (based on the evacuation of St Kilda, but filmed on Foula). There is much to commend about it, including several outbreaks of poetic pipe-smoking, but my favourite moment occurs when the mist clears and one of the characters exclaims: "the hills of Scotland!" It is always bad luck when the hills of Scotland come into view, and so it proves for Mr John Laurie, doomed, long before Dad's Army.
The screening was organised by the cinema wing of the Peebles Showboaters, and included a lecture by our resident cineaste, Mr Arthur Gout-Hardy, whose 1954 film of life in Drem, One Horse, One Post Office, was said by the critic of the Peebles Times-Picayune to have influenced the free-flowing style adopted much later by Mr Martin Scorsese in the agricultural drama Mean Streets.
Mr Gout-Hardy gave a talk, followed by some of Mr Powell's "home-movies", shot long after The End of the World, on one of the director's frequent walks in the Scottish highlands.
These short films were every bit as evocative as the films of Mr Claude Friese-Greene (recently presented on the BBC by Mr Dan Cruickshank). The hills of Scotland looked far from ominous. More remarkable still, Mr Powell's kilted companion on those walks was Sir Alastair Dunnett, the editor of the Scotsman from 1952-72, who can be seen enjoying the dramatic views. Mr Powell's love of Scotland is obvious, as is that of his friend. So why did I feel so melancholy when presented with this image?

The Verbal Tics Of Mr Blair And Mr Cameron: A Translation For The Politically Bamboozled

As a seasoned thespian and judge of amateur theatrics, I am familiar with vocal tics and verbal hiccoughs. In recent years, I have grown to admire the performances of the Prime Minister, Mr Tony Blair, who employs the persuasive pleading of a promenade preacher from a Summer Mission, ordering his congregation into submission with a sudden descent from high-flown rhetoric into the demotic prompting of a propelling pencil salesman. Most often, he will use impatience, pressing the word "look" into service, when what he really means is "listen".
On listening to Mr David Cameron's performance on Desert Island Discs, it became clear that the Conservative leader has appropriated Mr Blair's style, venturing even further into chattiness. Instead of "look", he uses the phrase "you know", implying that what is saying is no more than common sense, when frequently it is neither common, nor sense. A useful corrective to this approach is to insert a different phrase every time the verbal hiccough is employed. A substitute for Mr Blair's "listen" is "I am losing the argument and am now about to patronise you into submission". For Mr Cameron's "you know", try "I am irredeemably posh, and am assuming that this is persuasive".

Mr David Cameron's Infatuation With Kamikaze Milkmen Is A Worry And A Danger, And Is Made No Better By Its Association With Mr Benny Hill

I have long been suspicious of the musical choices made by politicians on BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs. With the possible exception of Lady Thatcher, and her peculiar insistence on the merits of Mr Rolf Harris's childish parable, Two Little Boys, these musical selections most often arrive with the whiff of the focus group about them. (In this category, we may place the Chancellor, Mr Brown's claim that he awakes to the Arctic Monkeys on his "i-Pod".)
But I confess I am quite befuddled by the revelation that the former PR man and Conservative leader, Mr David Cameron, considers Mr Benny Hill's novelty hit Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West) to be worthy of a slot on his imaginary desert island jukebox. Mr Cameron has claimed that the ditty reminds him of his childhood - a revelation that will alert many in the psychology profession to a future "earner" - and that it is the only song he knows all the words of.
Certainly, one cannot choose the lyrics which affix themselves to memory: I can recite the second verse of Mr Edward Lear's The Quangle Wangle's Hat, and sometimes do so, quite involuntarily. But I am not convinced that Mr Cameron made himself more electable by intoning the line, "You could hear the hoof beats pound, as they raced across the ground", from this comedic tale of lawless milkmen. Indeed, as the hero of the song, Ernie, departs this mortal coil for the "milkround in the sky" after a battle with "two ton Ted from Teddington", is Mr Cameron not in danger of giving encouragement to suicidal fanatics?
I am in favour of milkmen, and milkfloats. Dawn shoot-outs over the gold top are less endearing.

Ms Ruth Wishart, The Scottish Question, And The Role Of Ethnic Vegetables In This Summer's FIFA World Cup

In Peebles, thankfully, one is insulated from the worst aspects of football fanaticism. The local team, Peebles Rovers, held Hibernian to a goalless draw in 1923, but their efforts in recent years have been less spectacular.
None of which explains why the FIFA World Cup should be allowed to blight the summer, but there is every sign that it will.
Already in The Herald, the indomitable Ms Ruth Wishart has exercised the arguments in favour of the Scots being able, and indeed encouraged, to disaparage the efforts of the English, on the grounds that Scotland is a daft wee country comprised of prejudice and self-loathing in equal quantities, which - like some antithetical Brigadoon - only exists when it is indulging in choreographed displays of national masochism. (I may have paraphrased her argument a little).
And today, in The Independent, the Commons diarist and wag, Mr Simon Carr, used his column to disparage the parliamentary efforts of Mr Des Browne MP, Mr Adam Ingram MP, and - with less force - Mr Alistair Darling MP.
Mr Carr's chauvinism was not conducted undercover of the fog of football analysis, so it seemed more offensive. The parliamentary answers of Messrs Browne and Ingram made one want to throw "ethnic vegetables" at them, he quipped, adding; "do they have vegetables in Scotland?" Mr Browne's answers to various questions were, said Mr Carr, so piffling "you'd be better off quizzing your haggis". In conclusion, the diarist offered that Mr Browne's continued high office was part of the Prime Minister's cunning plan "to get us sick of being governed by Scotsmen."
It would not do to take Mr Carr any more seriously than he takes himself, but there is something offensive about his belief that racism against the Scots is a valid form of humour. I would write to his editor and complain, but I am reminded by Ms Wishart that the racing tipster and leader of the Scottish National Party, Mr Alex Salmond MP, (pictured, in silly hat) has pledged his support in the World Cup to Trinidad and Tobago, on the grounds that they are not England. In this case, Mr Salmond is the ethnic vegetable.

Rosslyn Chapel, The Da Vinci Cod, And A Wheelbarrow Full Of Manure (Not Neccessarily Involving Mr Tom Hanks)

DSCN1201
Originally uploaded by Herschell Hershey.

The film of Mr Dan Brown's terrible novel The Da Vinci Code opens in cinemas today, and is sure to bring thousands of conspiracy theorists to Rosslyn Chapel, Midlothian, in search of the Holy Grail. Instead, they will find mugs in the souvenir shop with a picture of a fish on the side, and the legend, "the Da Vinci cod".
Hopefully, the ballyhoo will soon die down. In the meantime, to spare you the effort of going there - and there is a danger that one will get lost on those Midlothian roads and find oneself trapped in a village full of shirtless ex-miners - click on the photo (above) to see some pictures from my recent visit to this rather spooky little chapel.

Paradise Lost In The Observer: Take A Train To Haddington And A Taxi To Never-Never Land

Journalism is an abject trade, and travel journalism is its most corrupt chapter. It existence has nothing to do with the interests of the reader, and everything to do with advertising. You might expect journalists to complain about this, as they are never slow to accuse others of hypocrisy or corruption. But they do not. Complaining would mean that they were no longer able to embark on free holidays, luxury hotel and spa breaks, and discounted cruises. It might also go some way towards stemming the global warming caused by the dismal business of world tourism, in which poor people traverse the globe in the Sardine Class compartment of unsafe aeroplanes searching for paradise islands which only existed in the limited imaginations of hacks whose definition of a good time is a free dinner and a key to the mini bar.
But this is not the worst form of travel journalism. The lowest form is the "reader's recommendation" in which a newspaper fills its columns with the views of the public, on the understanding that these opinions are somehow unbiased, despite the obvious danger that those same readers may be related to the hoteliers, inn-keepers and restaurauteurs whose establishments are being praised. Nevertheless, this form is increasingly popular, as it allows editors to fill their pages without paying for journalism.
Yesterday, The Observer excelled itself with a page of readers' recommendations of "cool campsites". I particularly enjoyed the reveries of a Ms Corra Boushel, of Edinburgh, on a place called: "The Beach, East Lothian."
"The spot is hard to find," she wrote, "but well worth the trouble. Take a train from Edinburgh to Haddington, then a taxi to the beach car park, about two and a half miles before North Berwick. From there walk a little over the dunes and pick your pitch, sheltered by dry stone walls and pine trees. From the top of the dunes you can look over to Fife, with industrial Kirkcaldy glinting back across the River Forth. To the west is Bass Rock, covered in a creamy white duvet of sea birds. There is firewood with pine scented logs, an exfoliating wash in the icy firth and the occasional dog walker to offer a smile. There's no fresh water, no mobile phone reception and no one to hear you singing to the trees and stars at night. Heaven."
Frankly, I am very worried about Ms Boushel, and the geographical improbability of her Nirvana.
There is, of course, no railway station in Haddington, which would make her journey problematic to begin with. Haddington is not on the coast at all, but several miles inland. Rather than taking a taxi from a non-existent station to North Berwick, would it not be simpler to try to hail one from the station at North Berwick itself? But what to tell the taxi driver? If the beach is two and a half miles out of North Berwick, it could be Yellowcraig, if it is to the west, or Seacliff, if it is to the east. The existence of dunes, and the view across the Forth estuary to Fife, suggests it is the former. But if so, how does the Bass Rock (pictured) appear in the west, when it is actually in the east?
I am baffled and intrigued. I would attempt the journey, but I fear I might have to hire the Tardis.

Mr Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson MP Versus Germany. Where Are You When We Need You, Mr Eddie Waring?

As a politician, Mr Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson MP has always treated public affairs as if he were appearing on an edition of It's A Knockout. In this video clip, he appears to be taking this approach to a new level.

Edinburgh's Floral Clock Used To Be A Riot Of Colour, Now It Is A Dismal Mossy Verge. Will The Summer Ever Bloom?

It is, I confess, a couple of weeks since I was in Edinburgh, but on reviewing the package of pictures I received this morning from Krappy Snaps, I was reminded of the disappointment I felt on visiting Princes Street Gardens. This, you must understand, was quite separate from my usual catalogue of disappointments, and was not even related to the act of corporate vandalism which has obliterated the putting green (putting greens, like public lavatories and water fountains, being a measure of civilisation) or allowed the construction of a carbuncle on the site of Castle.
This disappointment related to the floral clock. It is, I understand, the oldest floral clock in the world, and I have fond memories of being taken to see it whenever the Elder family visited Edinburgh to purchase new balaclavas. I loved its gaudiness, and the fact that it was possible to observe the mechanical advance of time. On my 14th birthday, my mother, Mrs Elder (or Ma'am), explained to me that the clock was a symbol of the cycle of life, which I understood to be a Raleigh Sports model with an upholstered saddle and a dynamo for the dark winter mornings.
There was sadness, too, if we happened upon the clock during winter, when the hands were removed, in case anyone should get the idea that the bad weather might pass.
Imagine the dismay I felt on my recent visit: the hands of time were turning, but the floral display was muted to the point of dreariness. I hope this is not a foretaste of a dismal spring.

Mr David Cameron Is A Shakespearian Imp With A Chaffeur For His Shoes. He Should Spare Us His Emissions By Driving An Electric Bubble Car

Since Mr David Cameron rose without trace to become the peach-skinned leader of the Conservative Party, I have seen little to change my initial impression that he is a flibbertigibbet. I mean this in the Shakespearian sense of the word - as defined on the excellent World Wide Words site - meaning a demon or an imp. In King Lear, Edgar describes one such creature: “He gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth.” If there has ever been a more succinct definition of public relations, I have yet to read it.
This morning on Radio Four's Today programme, the organic farmer Mr John Humphrys challenged Mr Cameron - not long returned from a journey to uncover his inner polar bear - on his “green” credentials. Mr Cameron, it seems, is in the habit of cycling to Westminster, followed by a car. The latter vehicle is required to carry Mr Cameron's papers, and his shoes.
Asked to justify this, the Conservative leader whimpered defensively. As it was radio, I could not say for certain that he squinted his eye or made the harelip, but it all sounded quite unpleasant.
Last week, Mr Cameron made another ecological gaffe, posing beside an electrical car - the Reva G-Wiz (pictured) - though he drives something far bigger and far uglier.
I have investigated the G-Wiz, and understand it has enough storage under the bonnet for a pair of Church shoes, and ample space in the back for several boxes of paperwork. It produces no noxious emissions, and costs around 1p per mile to run. But Mr Cameron knows that. He just chooses to ignore it.
Meanwhile, the white wheat is mildewed.

On Edinburgh's Royal Mile, A Pink Bouquet For A Chubby, Toga-Wearing Hero Of The Enlightenment (Clue: Not Mr John Prescott)

As if a vision of the Grim Reaper was not enough, my trip to Edinburgh involved a walk along the High Street, where I was able to inspect the tarmacadam which has been laid over the cobbles in order to make this historic highway a Formula One track for malevolent taxis and hormonal boys with "spoilers" on the tailfins of their Ford Escorts.
While I was there, two things happened. Both were reassuring in their way. First, I encountered the deceased highwayman, Mr Adam Lyall, leading a band of tourists through the closes of the Old Town. Many ghosts and ghouls walk these streets, and I feel cheated if I do not see one, if only to remind myself of the famous court case in which a man, enraged by the screams of the tourists on these haunted walks, emerged from his home waving a machete. The tourists, believing the man to be part of the tour, did nothing, until he gave chase, still waving his weapon. The poor fellow was jailed, but I trust that someone will write a folk song about him.
My second odd moment occurred at the statue of Mr David Hume, who stands guard outside the court at the top of the Mound. Mr Hume is a portly fellow, and somewhat under-dressed, which has led some to believe that enlightenment will be granted by rubbing his toenails as they pass.
But the other night, as this picture shows, Mr Hume was holding a bouquet of flowers. I could find no explanation for this, nor did any of the other passers-by find it remarkable.
I welcome suggestions as to why the flowers were there, but until I hear better, I will assume that they were a random act of beauty in an otherwise thankless world.

Hell's Bells! The Grim Reaper Can Be Seen In The Shadow Of The Rev. John Knox

At my stage in life, it is wise to ignore portents, signs and symbols. They are, if one's mind is open to metaphor, everywhere. It is better, then, to carry on in the manner of the Roadrunner in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, not fearing cliffs, and running on into open air regardless.
Certainly, I was in a blue mood the other day, when I passed through Edinburgh on my way back from the funeral of the "King of the highlands" Mr Calum Kennedy. In order to add steel to my spirits I trudged up the mound to the Assembly Hall, where I hoped to pay tribute to the statue in the courtyard.
I had my Boots Beirette with me, and took a few pictures. It was a sunny day, and the statue looked appropriately forbidding. Then, gazing through the viewfinder, I found myself transfixed by the dark shape on the wall behind (see above).
I thought it then and I think it still. The Grim Reaper lurks in the shadow of the Rev John Knox.

The Da Vinci Code, The Holy Grail, And A Satirical Wheelbarrow At Rosslyn Chapel

I have, as you may have noticed, been away. I spent the best part of the last week attempting to work the Gaz stove whilst listening to the percussion of the rain on the rusting lid of the Dormobile. It was not a relaxing break, but my measure of a good holiday was best summed up by Mr Frank Sinatra, who famously observed that while it is nice to go a-travellin', it's so much nicer at home. (This is not strictly true, as my home is currently infested with clothes moths and Peruvian horny gollochs, but I cling to the sentiment).
I hope, over the next few days, to share the joys of my holiday.
On Easter Sunday, I ventured to Rosslyn Chapel in Midlothian, in search of the Holy Grail. I was not alone. Mr Dan Brown's book, The Da Vinci Code, has led a stream of unlikely pilgrims to the place, looking for answers to a question that most of them seem to have forgotten.
I have not read this book, and do not intend to waste the flickering remnants of my eyesight in doing so, but I am assured that as a work of prose it makes Mr Jeffrey Archer look like Mr Marcel Proust. The book has obviously made on impact on the chapel, which charges visitors £7 to admire its crumbling masonry. Sadly, this means that it is no longer a place of contemplation. I would not be surprised to see "interactive" displays there soon.
I was, however, cheered by the subtle comment of a local farmer on the whole "Da Vinci" business (see photo).

Mr Elder Is Away, But Not With The Fairies

Mr Elder apologises for his recent absence. He has been away in the Dormobile; pictured here at Gullane Bents. He has now returned, and will resume normal service shortly.

I Am Justified And Ancient, This Is An Age Of Callowness And Youthful Idiocy, And That Is Why I Will Never Star In Doctor Who

As a child, I was warned about ambition. My mother, Mrs Elder (or Ma'am), was of the belief that ambition rode in on a dark horse called Disappointment. "Disappointment is your friend," she would tell me, rapping my nose with a percussive spurtle. "Welcome him, or he will ride you to Hell."
It was, and remains, good advice. When one anticipates disappointment, the pain is diminished, though even by recognising this fact I wonder whether I am letting myself in for a terrible surprise. There was, I noticed this morning, only one magpie on the cedar tree.
My latest disappointment is the casting of Mr David Tennant as the Doctor in the television drama Doctor Who. It is not that he is unqualified for the role: as an actor he has some charisma, and the glib self-confidence that currently passes for talent. My objection is his age. He is approximately sixteen. He wears sandshoes. He looks as if he should be revising for his Modern Studies prelim, and not indulging in the unpredictable science of time travel.
There is, I confess, an element of pique in my observation. As a thespian of a certain age, one's horizons tend to narrow. The death of Mr Mike Baldwin on Coronation Street - from bewilderment, after a long bout of over-acting - is a typical fate.
But Time Lords should be different. They have travelled the universe, and can take any human form. In previous incarnations - Mr Willian Hartnell and Mr Jon Pertwee - the Doctor, if not exactly ancient, was at least allowed to have grey hair (as in politics, baldness seems to disqualify one from holding the position of a Time Lord).
But - foolish ambition - I cherished the fantasy that a thin man in damp tweed and a drop-brim trilby might one day take charge of the Tardis. Previous Doctors have been English eccentrics, with cricket jumpers, long scarves and straw boaters. Why not make the Doctor a Scot? We are, after all, famed for our calm bedside manner.
The Daleks, I recall, battled with kilted teuchters in the 1960s, and now it is done. The Doctor is of a Caledonian bent, though his accent comes from a polluted corner of the Thames estuary.
This is the disappointment I never anticipated: the realisation that I will never be a Time Lord.
The next Doctor, I predict, will be a girl.

Bird Flu: Permission To Panic, Sir

When it comes to health panics, I have always been of the opinion that no reassurance should ever be offered to the public. This morning on Radio Four I heard a scientist explain that there really was no risk to the public from "bird flu". In the same breath, he cheerily advised against eating runny boiled eggs, and suggested that chicken be cooked with the assistance of something called a meat thermometer. I had not heard of this implement before, and the news of its existence was enough to make me nervous.
Then the scientist issued the most ominous sentence I have heard for some time. "I think," he said, "that common sense says that today we don't make fresh mayonnaise." It would have been less alarming if Lance Corporal Jones had shouted "Don't panic!"
Sadly, I didn't catch the scaremongering scientist's name. It was 5.55am, and I was frying a swan.

Mr Gene Pitney, 24 Hours Past Tulsa

Further to my item on newspaper billboards, below, Mr H Hershey of London submits this unfortunate juxtaposition, advertising Wednesday's Evening Standard.

Tartan Week Poll Results: Oor Wullie Pips Penny Chew, While Mr Henry McLeish Proves More Popular Than An OAP In A Leather Kilt

The poll results are in. You were asked: Rather than spend £480,000 on Tartan Day, the Scottish Executive should have spent the money on what?
You replied:
34% - Angel of the North-style statue of Oor Wullie
30% - A McCowan's toffee chew for every child, plus free visit to Polish dentist
23% - The Henry McLeish Library and Museum
6% - Premium bonds
5% - Free leather kilts for all OAPs

This matter is now closed. Another poll will follow soon.

The Strange Case Of Mr George Galloway MP, And The Fake Sheikh

A note arrives in a manilla envelope, with a photograph attached. The picture is said to reveal the identity of the News of the World's "Fake Sheikh", Mr Mazher Mahmood. The note is signed, "Mr G Galloway, MP, Baghdad South".
Usually, when I am "being had" I don't notice. On this occasion, I do.

As New York Eats Haggis Canapes, A Final Chance To Vote

As the great, the good, and several Scottish people gather to fight over haggis canapes in New York, the time has come to bring this site's opinion poll (see below, right) to a close. It offered alternative uses for the public money which has taken our leaders to their annual knees-up in New York and even prompted Mr Alex Salmond to wear a kilt against his better nature, and medical advice.
So far, public opinion appears to be behind a giant sculpture of Oor Wullie, but my own preference - a McCowan's toffee chew for every child, plus a free visit from a Polish dentist - is rising in the poll. The former Senior Retainer, Mr Henry McLeish is also performing creditably.
To give stragglers a final chance to affect this profoundly undemocratic exercise, the poll will remain open for another 24 hours. Note: the poll does not represent public opinion, and is therefore in keeping with British democratic traditions.

HM, The Queen And My Sex Abuse Shame

I was intrigued to read in The Guardian that the London Evening Standard recently attempted to lure readers with a bill which read; "Queen takes cab to the theatre". It is, I confess, an intriguing image, though I was left wondering how Her Majesty managed to manoeuvre the cab into the Royal Box. Perhaps it was able to ascend the stairway by means of a wheelchair ramp.
The Guardian's Mr Kim Fletcher concludes his piece by saying that the art of the billboard is contained in the phrase: "they lure you in and they let you down" - a maxim which has endless applications in modern life.
Thus, when I saw the attached billboard, I was curious, though not curious enough to purchase the Edinburgh Evening News. The dimensions of my various shames are too great to be addressed in a tabloid newspaper, but none of them, as far as I am aware, falls into the suggested category. Unless you count PE lessons in my pants. And the business with the history teacher during that summer of swimming lessons after which I received a certificate saying I had successfully swum for a total of four strokes (this being the maximum number of doggy paddles which an underweight boy can achieve before sinking).

If Mr Ronnie Corbett Was King, Would Charles Be Queen? A Gay Old Solution To The Crisis In The Monarchy

When it comes to popular music I am no Sir Jimmy Savile, which is a blessed relief. As such, I must confess that I am not aware of the singer, Mr Morrissey, though I am told by my informants in the tambourine-playing corner of the Youth Fellowship that he a cross between Mr Johnnie Ray, Mr Kenneth Williams, and Mr Joe Orton, which is worrying, to say the least.
Anyway, I understand also that Mr Morrissey recently observed that Mr Ronnie Corbett would make a better King than HRH the Prince of Wales.
It is, I think, an interesting thesis. Mr Corbett would certainly be good at public broadcasts, as he has spent half of his life talking rubbish from the comfort of an easy chair. True, he is prone to digression, and his Christmas address might include more references to Morningside ladies and golf club dinners than has traditionally been the case, but this would surely be welcome after several decades in which HM The Queen has been forced to feign an interest in Zimbabwean hatmakers, while also endeavouring to make politically-correct points designed to mask the truth about Britain's diminishing role in the world.
Prince Charles has made a late bid for the job of King by drawing attention to his peculiar journals, in which he compared Chinese dignitaries to waxworks, but in doing so he revealed himself only to be his father's son.
I wonder, then, if we might propose a compromise. In the 1970s, there was much talk about a modern monarchy, a concept which was always presented with reference to the bicycling monarchs of Scandinavia. As we now have a bicycling Leader of the Conservative and Unionist Party, might I suggest a marriage of convenience between Mr Corbett and Prince Charles?
Over the years, the monarchy has been forced to embrace everything it was designed to suppress, while never admitting to its progressive attitudes towards homosexuality. Without wishing to imply anything about Mr Corbett or the Prince - both are rugged heterosexuals with never a stray thought between them - I think it is fair to say that it is not just in poker that two kings are better than one.
Mr Corbett could do the talking, Charles could bake the biscuits.

A Pungent Message To Mr Blair From A Vandal With A Spelling Impediment

There are times, I confess, when I become downhearted about the level of political discourse in this country. But occasionally I have what my mother, Mrs Elder (or Ma'am), used to call "a moment", in which things do not seem quite as bad. (Mrs Elder was no optimist, and believed sincerely that good cheer should be avoided, in the certain knowledge that it was always followed by disappointment.)
However, as a judge in the Peebles Peewits International Photography prize, I was encouraged by the above photograph of a graffito on a wall near the City of London. I assume it was painted by a young person, and while the message is not sophisticated, it does display some engagement with the wider world. I particularly like the way that the vandal has taken the time to correct his spelling of the word "capitalism", ridding it of a rogue second "i". I suspect, also, that the first "e" in poverty began life as an "o".
I am not surprised to read in today's newspaper that everyone in England under the age of 42 has been served with an Asbo. Perhaps it would be more productive to insist that they watch Countdown. How else, in this world of incomprehensible text messages and synthetic phonics, will anyone learn to spell?

A Microwaveable Solution To Cold Hands, If Not Global Warming Or Bearded Ladies

I do not possess as a microwave oven, as I have always taken the view that if a pie is worth eating, it is worth waiting for, and I am sure it is only a matter of time before we discover that the habit of bombarding food with weird energy is unhealthy, if not directly to blame for the increased appearance of people with six toes, second heads, or bald, bearded ladies in the greater Borders region. However, I was encouraged by this device, a magical mitten warmer, and I intend to construct one and heat it in a conventional oven, taking care to do so while I am also warming a macaroni pie so as not to waste the earth's precious natural resources.

A Practical Solution To The 'Cash For Gongs' Scandal Which Might - But Need Not - Result In The House Of Lords Being Invaded By Defecating Elephants

I have been intrigued by the parallels between the government's policy of accidentally giving honours to the billionaires who support New Labour, and the fact that Blue Peter badges are now being sold on the internet trading site eBay.
Both of these developments suggest that free market thinking has triumphed over more subtle definitions of the public good, and that the ethics of the supermarket have replaced the values of the community.
This is not a surprise, and I make no comment on it. However, in one respect, the Blue Peter badge is preferable to the existing honours system, in that clear guidelines exist by which non-billionaires may apply for the award. The blue Blue Peter badge is awarded "for interesting letters, good ideas for the programme, stories, poems, pictures and for having appeared on the programme."
The Silver badge is slightly odd. According to the guidelines: "To win a Silver badge you have to do something different from what you did to win your Blue badge. For instance, if you won a Blue badge for an interesting letter; you could win a Silver one by sending us a picture or poem."
Green badges are awarded for letters with a conservation and environmental theme. Gold badges - the most exclusive award - are reserved for "really outstanding achievements - for instance, saving somebody's life or extreme bravery." A further category of badge is available to those who have won Blue Peter competitions.
Clearly the possibility of badge abuse exists within this system, and there is no clear definition of the criteria for judging, for example, "a really outstanding achievement". Both HM, The Queen, and the pop singer, Ms Madonna Ciccone, have been given gold badges, though I am not aware of either of them being involved in an act of extreme bravery.
However, in most regards, the Blue Peter system is preferable and - to use modern parlance - more transparent than the honours system.
I propose, therefore, that the honours system, which has been debased by greed, be replaced by the Blue Peter system, which will also allow the great and the good to be identified as they walk among us by the colour of their lapel decoration.
Clearly, this would be a radical constitutional change, and could not happen overnight. In the interim, perhaps the existing peers could be encouraged to open up a trade in honours. If peerages were 'for sale' on eBay, we would all have a clearer idea of their worth.

I Puff, Therefore I Am, So Put That In Your Pipe And Smoke It, Mr McConnell

I type with tredidation, for as I write, my meerschaum bowl is stuffed with gold-red embers of Walnut Plug. As I breathe, I wheeze. At times, the fug is as a thick as the fog in the London of an elderly American's imagination - a veritable peasouper.
Am I a criminal? I may well be, though I confess that I am as confused as the next woman by the small print of the Scottish Executive's ban on smoking in public places. True, my living room is far from public. It does not welcome visitors. Indeed, the last stranger to step over the draught excluder was the Co-op engineer who had come to fix my television after I complained that it was receiving ITV: a service I had neither requested nor enjoyed.
And yet, the ban includes the cabs of long-distance lorry drivers, who are now under a legal requirement to extinguish their gaspers as they cross the border travelling North, with the result - I predict - that Gretna Green will become more famous for its resemblance to an ashtray than for its matrimonial anvil.
Still, it was exciting to see the Senior Retainer, Mr McConnell, on the national news, even if the lasting memory of his appearance will have been the suspicion that he is a fellow with a peculiarly square head, and the diction of a schoolboy using English as a foreign language.

There Will Be Dancing In The Streets Of Raith As A Result Of This Budget

The Chancellor, Mr Gordon Brown, is not famed for his levity. But did I detect the ghost of a smile as he announced that there was to be no increase in duty on Champagne "in anticipation of World Cup success this summer"?

Scotland Has No Need Of An Anthem, For It Is A Wee Country, Meek In Aspect, And Quietly Happy With Its Insignificance, Thank You For Asking, Mister

The decision to serenade our Commonwealth Games medallists with a dreary blast of Scotland The Brave has put a match to the damp touch-paper that is the debate about our national anthem. The tartan specialist and - it says here - "anthem campaigner", Mr Roddy Martine has called on the BBC for the matter to be sorted out, with a new anthem for a new Scotland. A representative of the Scotland football supporters' organisation has suggested that Auld Lang Syne would be a good option, despite the fact that the Corries' Flower of Scotland is now used at most sporting events.
It is, I think, a curiosity and a sign of our national impotence that so much energy can be devoted to the choice of an anthem, when so little is given over to a consideration of whether Scotland is a country at all.
Certainly, we have a flag. We have a parliament, though it is closed for repairs, and is not sovereign. We have a national dish - haggis - which is now on sale at selected Sainsbury's outlets throughout Britain all the year round. But our "army" is tartan, and has built its reputation on its cheerful celebration of the inevitability of defeat.
I do not make these observations from a position of political malice. All of these things may be signs of nationhood, but none of them is likely to win a seat on a chaise longue at the United Nations.
In fact, it is a good thing that we have no anthem. If we did, I suspect it would be something like Loch Lomond, by Runrig - whose habit of wearing black vests in public disqualified them from serious consideration - or Sailing, by that gravedigging son of Holloway, Mr Rod Stewart. In an ideal world, Mr Michael Marra's Hermless would prevail, but the song, and Mr Marra, have resisted all attempts to coax them into the light.
In a sane world, Mr Hamish Henderson's Freedom Come All Ye, would be adopted, but I am not convinced that it represents the aspirations of the young, whose idea of freedom is the right to drink coffee from polystyrene cups while wearing white earphones and talking in a Jamaican patois, unless one is Jamaican, when such behaviour is frowned upon.
Perhaps the time has come to accept that, insofar as we are a people at all, we are meek, and polite, and rarely anthemic.
If pride were not a sin, we could feel a wee bit chuffed about that.

Mr Blair Could Solve The "Cash For Gongs" Scandal By Ridding Britain Of The Menace Of Political Advertising. Who But The Agency Chimps Would Care?

Please excuse me if my tone is unfamiliar. I am just back from the latest seminar in Borders Council's Silver Surfers Initiative, which aims to encourage the withered and the obselete - that is, anyone over 40 - in the ways of modern media. This latest seminar concerned the "semiotics of blogging", and it included several handy hints on how to get one's writing noticed.
Most of these tips can be characterised by a central premise: one should be angry and unreasonable at all times. The blog is to the modern media landscape what the news bulletin was to Mr Peter Finch in the film Network: a place in which the author is under pressure to declare that he (and they are usually gentlemen) is as mad as hell, and not going to take it any more.
Regular readers of this blog will have noticed that I have acquired some jargon. Until recently, I thought the modern media landscape was the Blue Peter garden, designed by Mr Percy Thrower to resemble an Italian sunken garden in 1973, and cruelly vandalised in 1983. Mr Thrower, I recall, declared tearfully that the culprits must have been "mentally ill".
It is, then, with some trepidation that I must announce that this blog identified the Prime Minister's problem with patronage some time before the current "cash for gongs" scandal erupted. On the 5th of March, I noted that Mr Blair had attempted his public relations "comeback" with an appearance on Parkinson, the host of which he had rewarded with a CBE in 2000. This breach is of a different order to granting peerages to the millionaires who secretly funded New Labour's election campaign, but the principle in both cases is one of mutual back-scratching.
As I have resisted all invitations to donate money to the coffers of New Labour, and am in receipt of no offers of peerages, or medals of any sort, I feel I am in a strong position to make an observation which goes to the centre of this row.
So far, all the attention has been on the question of how political parties are funded, when it should really be on the way they spend their money. Both Labour and Conservatives squandered £17m at the last election, much of it on pointless advertisements. The only beneficiaries of such largesse were the performing chimps in red-rimmed spectacles who designed the advertisements, the newspapers which published them, and the companies whose hoardings do so much to make our town- and city-scapes resemble the back pages of a pornographic magazine.
Why not ban political advertising? It is a malign influence, and a visual pollutant, which makes dishonest people richer while demeaning our democracy.
Incidentally, on the question of "gongs", I tend to side with the late Goon, Mr Spike Milligan, who observed of his CBE: "It’s a thing on a string. It’s not really that exquisite. You could get one, you feel, at Marks & Spencer."

The Late Baron Wilson of Rievaulx Was One Of The Last Of The Great Pipe Men, And It Made Him A Better Prime Minister

Today is the 30th anniversary of the resignation of Mr Harold Wilson (later Baron Wilson of Rievaulx) from the office of Prime Minister. Odd as it is to say it, 1976 was a more innocent time, and Mr Wilson's resignation went unexplained. If it happened today, one imagines it would be accompanied by days and weeks of soul-searching and revelation, followed by interviews, serialisations, lecture tours, and a guest appearance on a Saturday night celebrity ice dancing spectacular.
The most common explanation of Mr Wilson's departure is the suggestion that he was aware that his mental faculties were failing, and decided to leave his office with his dignity intact. In which case, it would be in bad taste to probe further.
But, in thinking about it, I began to wonder about Mr Wilson's pipe. In journalistic shorthand, this is usually known as his "trademark pipe", though I am doubtful that any such trademark existed. Indeed, the more cynical of his biographers have suggested that Mr Wilson smoked cigars in private, and sucked on his pipe because - like his Gannex raincoat - it made him look as if he was in touch with the common man. I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt, not least because I am nostalgic for a time when a pipe might have been perceived as a no-nonsense accoutrement, rather than a prop from a play by Mr Noel Coward which must remain unlit due to Safety Regulations and legislation on "passive smoking". Passive smoking had not been invented in Mr Wilson's time, and no one was any less happy.
My enquiries into Mr Wilson's pipe led me to some dark cul-de-sacs on the information superhighway. One of these is a campaign to nominate the "Icons of England", which is surely welcome. For years, we Scots have been droning on about our national identity, and it would surely be healthy if our nearest neighbours were able to embrace their more benign peculiarities. At the moment, the nominations are led by the English countryside, the English pub, Morris dancing, the red telephone kiosk, the Land Rover, the oak tree, and the English bobby. At the risk of invoking the West Lothian question, I have voted for Mr Wilson's pipe, though I am clearly in a minority in my advocacy of this cause.
Writing some years ago about Mr Ruskin Spear's portrait of Mr Wilson in the Guardian Mr Jonathan Jones declared that the magic of the painting could be located in the pipe smoke. "It's a disconcerting veil, a cloud of ambiguity around Wilson, partly concealing his features and smudging our perception of him. Through the smoke, his blue eyes look away from us and are impossible to read. Wilson's pipe was one of the props by which he communicated an unpretentious northern persona, but here it becomes an emblem of the masked, secret Wilson: his bluff act is a disguise. He wreathes himself in smoke, like a conjuror on stage, to conceal the machinery of his act."
I am reminded, too, of the famous anecdote - once recounted to the House by the cigarette-chewing Mr Charles Kennedy MP - of the time Mr Wilson was visited at Number Ten by the fearsome Miss Jean Rook of the Daily Express. In Mr Kennedy's telling, Miss Rook and Mr Wilson shared an early-evening dram, whereupon the Prime Minister pulled out his pipe, and said: "In your own time, Jean." Miss Rook steadied herself,and said, "Prime Minister Wilson, is it true that whenever you are asked a tough, awkward or difficult question that puts you on the spot and you don't want to answer, you always respond by means of a question?" Mr Wilson paused for a moment, removed the pipe from his mouth, and said: "Now who told you that, Jean?"
Contemporary politicians should take note. With a pipe, such a manoeuvre is charming. Without a pipe, it is merely evasive.

If Mr David Cameron Is A BMW, What Hope For An Electorate Of Cyclists And Pedestrians?

I was intrigued, this morning, to read that the Conservative leader is a BMW 5 series sports car, the Prime Minister an old Rover, a Lada (in the Guardian, or a Mini (on Radio 4's Today). The Chancellor, Mr Gordon Brown, is a tank. Reassuringly - though not for the environment, Sir "Ming" Campbell is an old Jaguar. (Mr Alex Salmond of the Scottish National Party was not ascribed a vehicular equivalent, but I fancy he is a Hillman Imp with tractor wheels.)
These findings are part of an ICM poll into the impact of Mr Cameron's first 100 days in charge of the Conservatives, and they will be welcomed by anyone who was under the impression that we are a nation governed by automobiles. Of course, what the figures really show is that we are a people ruled by public relations, brainwashed by advertising, and force-fed by fools. How else to explain the fact that these meaningless statistics were broadly interepreted as good news for Mr Cameron?
Such an explanation implies that BMWs are good, when Ladas, Rovers or Minis are bad. My experience as a cyclist and occasional Dormobile pilot is that there is something in the BMW that encourages aggressive behaviour, speed, and a lack of consideration for others. Minis, Ladas and Rovers have no such negative associations, while Jaguars tend to be driven by spivvy characters such as Mr Mike Baldwin in Coronation Street.
On the rare occasions when I have encountered tanks on the roads around Peebles I have found them courteous and agreeably slow.

Kilty By Suspicion: A Reader Writes

Further to the item (below) regarding the midi-skirt worn by the Senior Retainer, Mr McConnell, I received a note from a Mr McGregor, enclosing a picture of a painting in the Museum of Art Decoratif in Bordeaux. Mr McGregor writes: "It reminds me of someone; I was hoping with your extensive knowledge and expertise of men in gender- challenging kilts you might be able to suggest a name ( or two?) to jog my age and alcohol depleted brain."
It is, I agree, an intriguing picture, and a rather agreeable one. It reminds me of an edition of Thingummijig.
Mr McGregor also complains that the BBC, in its advertisements for a documentary on Oor Wullie, pronounced the word "whit" as "wheat", and "crivvens" as "cree-vins". I spent the last four days in the bunker, waiting for the storm to pass, and missed these calumnies, but I cannot say I am surprised by them. It has long been my contention that if our country's most famous actor, Sir Sean Connery, cannot manage a Scottish accent, there is little hope for the rest of us.

As The Ceiling of the Scottish Parliament Is Falling Down, Like The Sky In Chicken Little, Shouldn't We Sell Tickets And Introduce Performing Animals?

It is, of course, regrettable that our glorious leaders should be made temporarily homeless by the danger of falling beams from the ceiling of the Palatul Poporului in Holyrood. Without wishing to denegrate our elected representatives, aren't they being a bit soft, with their suggestion that the parliament be sited elsewhere until the building is made structurally sound? Our parliamentary debates are, as a rule, less exciting than a performance by Major Roberts Madras State Circus, and involve a far smaller risk of being mauled to death by a drugged lion. Could a safety net not be attached to the roof, to catch falling beams? If, at the same time, the opportunity was taken to introduce a few acrobats and performing elephants, our parliamentary affairs would be much enhanced.

An Experiment in Democracy, Inspired By The First Meenister's Pinstriped Kilt

I still have bad dreams about the experimental kilt worn by the Senior Retainer, Mr McConnell, at a "Tartan Day" event in New York. The fact that it was not tartan was what the French would call a faux pas, and what my mother, Mrs Elder (or Ma'am) might have termed a skelping offence. Accompanying his mini-skirt with a ruffled blouson was a secondary affront to the nation's fragile self-esteem. In many parts of Scotland, wearing such an outfit would have been enough to get Mr McConnell "kilt".
But let us not be churlish: Tartan Day does a good job of promoting Ireland to the Americans, particularly when the parade is headed by the world's favourite Irish policeman, Sir Sean Connery, of Fountainbridge.
Nevertheless, I think, the money could have been better spent. Please avail yourself of the opinion poll, (below, right), so that the national temperature on this issue might be taken.

"The Earth meets the sky over the hill. I was told by a sparrow with a lump on its head." Mr Ivor Cutler, RIP

It was with with some sadness that I read this morning of the death of that famous chronicler of a Scotch childhood, Mr Ivor Cutler. Mr Cutler was an obscure figure in his later years, but no one who heard him recite his story, Gruts For Tea, could have any doubt that he had an acute understanding of the grim medical condition known as Scottishness.
Mr Cutler was a Scottish original, as true a reflection of the North-British psyche as pan drops, jaggy balaclavas and joyless ministers pedalling to the bowling green through the haar of a late spring evening.
Somewhere, I trust, a buxom angel is serenading him on a wheezy harmonium.

More about Mr Cutler can be found by clicking his name, above.

The Chat Show Host, The Prime Minister, His Father-in-Law, And The Strange Case Of The "Jazz Cigarette"

It was kind of Mr Michael Parkinson to invite the Prime Minister, Mr Blair, to be a guest on the first edition of the new series of his ITV chat show, and decent of Mr Blair to accept, thus lending an air of gravadlax to Mr Parkinson's programme, which - like its host - is a shadow of its former self.
The interview was given much publicity in advance, after editors (not least on Newsnight) decided to misinterpret Mr Blair's reference to his faith. In fact, he said almost nothing about God, and seemed embarrassed by the subject.
There was one peculiar moment, however, when Mr Blair embarked on an anecdote about his father-in-law (and Mr Parkinson's old drinking companion) Mr Tony Booth. The Prime Minister said that the first occasion on which he had enjoyed a decent chat with the former Till Death Us Do Part actor occurred just after Mr Blair had married his daughter, Cherie. Mr Booth began the conversation by saying: "Do you mind if I light a joint?"
"I said 'no', incidentally," Mr Blair told Mr Parkinson.
Was this, I wonder, what he really meant to say? If he said no, he had consented to a "joint" being lit in his presence. Whether Mr Parkinson pressed him on this point, we may never know, as it was interrupted by a commercial break.
Such timidity is disappointing from Mr Parkinson, who, incidentally, was awarded the CBE - by Mr Blair, via HM The Queen - in 2000.

The Beatles, The Arctic Monkeys, And What Happened When Ms Kirsty Wark Talked "Pop" With Sir 'Ming' Campbell

One of the hazards of listening to Radio 4's Today programme is that one is exposed to all manner of nonsense, and not all of it from the mouth of the Rt Hon Geoff Hoon MP. Thanks to this, I am aware - as no mature person should be - of the existence of a popular showband by the name of the Arctic Monkeys. I could not distinguish them from the Kaiser Chiefs, or even from Orange Bicycle, but I am told there are people who find their music admirable, in much the same way as some people enjoy adding honey to their porridge, in the belief that this transforms it into a "super-food" which will grant them eternal life.
I was disburbed, however, by the performance of the new Liberal Democrat leader, Sir "Ming" Campbell on Newsnight, when presented with a "pop quiz" by that well-known fan of the late Mr Roy Orbison, Ms Kirsty Wark. Sir "Ming" was able to quantify the minumum wage, but could not name the head of the UK prison service. He was then asked to say which town the Arctic Monkeys hailed from. He said he could not answer the question, but he did know that the group had sold more records than the Beatles.
I am not sure what the researchers at Liberal Democrat headquarters are feeding Sir "Ming", but I think he should take a spoonful less from now on. If the Beatles have not sold more records, then I am the Walrus.

The Scottish Affairs Committee, continued.

More from that House of Commons committee on the benefits to Scotland of the London Olympics.
After a discussion of stadiums, Mr Angus MacNeil, SNP MP for Na h-Eileanan an Iar asks how Scotland compares to Norway.
Ms Lindsay Macgregor, Policy Manager, Convention of Scottish Local Authorities, replies: "I think economic and cultural differences as well makes comparison different, but certainly climatically it has its emphasis on skiing and snow and there is a cultural difference, that many people from childhood are driven in that direction. Perhaps we are lacking something like that; perhaps football is our equivalent here, I do not know."
Mr Charles Walker, Conservative MP for that well-known Scottish constituency of Broxbourne, adds: "It is a great shame that Scotland's mountains are not 2000 feet taller, is it not, because you would be one of the best ski resorts in the western world!"
In a hostile world, it is reassuring to know that we are governed by such perspicacious and witty folk.

As Sir "Ming" Campbell Wins An "Olympian" Victory Will Peebles High Street Be A-Throngin' With Oiled He-Men In Tweed Vests?

On the whole, I do not believe in conspiracies, unless they are silent, in which case I am rather in favour of them. However, a coincidence worthy of Messrs Woodward and Bernstein occurred this afternoon, as I listened to the results of the Liberal Democrats' leadership election. Just as Mr Simon Hughes declared that Sir "Ming" Campbell had won an "Olympian" victory (a reference to his participation in the Tokyo Games of 1964) I heard a thump on the doormat. Assuming it to be the usual flyers for assisted suicide, psychotherapy, or voodoo gardening, I ignored it. But then curiosity got the better of me.
On the mat was a manila envelope containing the uncorrected minutes of a meeting of the Scottish Affairs Committee of the House of Commons, from 15 November, 2005, concerning the impact of the Olympic Games on Scotland.
You might have thought that would be a short meeting. But no. The transcript runs on like a novel by Lord "Jeffrey" Archer (without the dramatic tension).
Fortunately, my informant had highlighted several passages, most notably the one which referred to the impact of the Olympics on Peebles.
Councillor Graham Garvie, of Peebles and District South, made the following observation: "In the real world we are 400 miles away from where the Games are going to take place, and I think that we should, as a society in Scotland, with our English colleagues running the Games, look at what we can achieve in reality on the ground, and I think that would be the exercise I would like to undertake. I think there are huge potentials for involving people in many ways. I am particularly interested personally in the training camps coming to Scotland - the spin-off from that is terrific. I live in Peebles and many teams for other sports come to stay in Peebles High Street Hotel and the youngsters are absolutely thrilled to bits; for a week they have international stars on their doorstep. That kind of involvement and spin-off I think is extremely important. It is not structured at all; it is just an encouragement to be involved in the area to which that team comes. So training camps interest me greatly in concentrating on a strategy for Britain to try to spread out the training camps from various countries throughout the UK; and some, I understand, come for months and months before the Games."
I am, pardon my French, dumfoonert. With the athletic Sir "Ming" now in charge of Councillor Garvie's party, can we expect a concerted campaign on this subject? Will Peebles High Street really be thronging with oiled Adonises, and if so, how will they be encouraged to keep running when they could more happily stop for a cup of milky tea and a fly cemetery?
There is more of this stuff, but I am saving it.

Smoking: a case of swings, roundabouts (and Woodbines)

I am delighted to read that the Scottish smoking ban is to be extended to play parks in Glasgow. Why should children be allowed to smoke, when the rest of us are not?