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You do know how to whistle, don’t you?
In the media storm that has followed the tragic death of Robin WIlliams, it’s important that we don’t overlook someone else who left us yesterday, from a generation earlier, but an equally iconic figure. RIP Lauren Bacall.
Best of causes
I am not big on plugging other people’s books, but I’m happy to make an exception for ‘My Dog, My Friend’, a new compilation put together by Jacki Gordon and published by Hubble and Hattie, a dog-dedicated imprint that’s part of Veloce Press.
It’s a couple of years since Jacki approached me and asked if I would contribute a doggie story to her collection, the clincher being that all author royalties would be going to the Samaritans.
I don’t have a dog, but what the hell, I’m creative, so I did a small piece dedicated to the boy Canelo, the younger of my step-son’s Labradors, in Spain. He and I have a special relationship. You’ll find my story on P 102 of the finished work. Canelo’s in good company, since my felllow contributors include Fred Macaulay, Esther Rantzen, Simon Callow, Charlie Dimmock, Richard Holloway and William McIlvanney, and many others.
You’ll also find this very nice photo of my subject being walked by his Granny.
‘My Dog, My Friend’ can be found on Amazon and, as they say these days with a twist of acid, in all good book shops.
Strongly recommended, and poignant, given the charity that will benefit, that it should be published in the week of Robin Williams’ suicide.
Thanks Dom
A few days ago, my step-son went to a concert in Spain. The performer was Gregory Porter, an American jazz singer. I’d never heard of him, but I gave him a try and a couple of days later his entire catalogue is in my music library. He’d fit well in yours.
No time at all
And so we start yet another SPFL football season. My prediction: Celtic to win the Premier League. Yes, I know; I’ve always been bold. For England, top four: Man U, Man City, Chelsea, Liverpool, to finish in no particular order, but if I was forced to bet I’d take City again.
So?
Twenty per cent of the Rolling Stones want Scotland to stay in the Union. So does Tom Daley. So does Lord Jock Stirrup. So does Professor Stephen Hawking. So does Ross Kemp.
Noted.
Little Darling
So, the pollsters say that Alastair Darling won the debate. As a Yes voter am I dismayed? Maybe slightly, when I think back to the confrontations during the 2010 Westminster election and recall that they gave us Nick Clegg, but otherwise not too much.
Anyone who thought that Darling would simply roll over is a fool. TV election debates are about rhetoric rather than substantive argument, and there is no better preparation for that than eight years of Cabinet rank questioning at the Dispatch Box on the floor of the House of Commons. That’s a rather tougher school than weekly confrontations with the amiable Jack McConnell, and his successors, who remain unknown to the vast majority of the Scottish electorate. But where did the former chancellor score? Where was his victory? They are saying that it was on the lack of a Plan B on the currency question. The fact is there is no need for a Plan B. Scotland is already part of a currency union and there is no legal or constitutional reason why it should not remain so as an independent nation.
Yet Darling’s so-called strength is also his weakness, for it reveals that his entire strategy is built upon playing upon the fears of the well-to-do and the downright wealthy. Yes, the fears, cupboard monsters dreamed up in a strategists’ brain-storming session. In focusing on that group of voters, ‘Better Together’, has forgotten one essential, fundamental truth. And so, I would suggest, have the pollsters. The rich are always greatly out-numbered by the poor. It’s the way the world works.
Westminster politicians are used to fighting campaigns that are targeted towards the small minority, fifteen percent at best, who are persuadable, and who will vote and decide elections on the basis of which party will put more money in their pockets through the following five years.
The referendum campaign isn’t like that. It isn’t about offering bribes to those who don’t need them, it’s about offering hope to those who need that more than anything, after forty years of the systematic de-industrialisation of Scotland and the construction of an economy in which the nation’s wealth has been concentrated inexorably on the City of London, which has become, in truth, a nation-state to which the rest of us are subservient. In government, Darling, as Chief Secretary and then as Chancellor, was one of the leading players helping to nurture it. (He was also one of the people who caused its near-collapse, a truth that is never mentioned in his campaign literature.) Make no mistake, he is still doing its bidding.
We have the opportunity to reclaim Scotland, not for the haves but for the have-nots, and in that crusade, there is one enormous ace in the hole: the fact that every single person in the land has exactly the same voting rights. If the issue is about currency, then remember this; the ballot paper is a currency of its own and every one is worth the same amount.
My hope is that September 18 will bring out people who neglect to vote in Westminster elections because there is nothing in it for them, but who will rush to tick the Yes box, because for the first time ever they feel truly enfranchised. If they do, as I believe they will, the Fearties will be swept into the Tweed, and the pollsters will discover that they have been plying their trade in a situation that they simply do not understand.
So long, old friend, so long
One Last Post about last night: at one point in the coverage I spotted our Prime Minister in a free seat and idly posted a tweet wondering who had let him in. Through the magic of an auto-arrangement the Headline techies have set up, this was copied on to my Facebook author page. That post prompted someone called Alan Jones to remark as follows:
‘Inappropriate comment. De friend time. Over. Bye bye’
For the record, Alan, I have no idea who you are, but clearly you have heard of me, and that is a compliment of sorts. However, if you believe that a Facebook friendship gives you the right to censor my political opinions, then I am well shot of you. By the way, this will auto-post on Facebook also.
Top marks
Further to my last post about the omni-present Clare Balding, I feel I should add that it should not be seen as criticism of the way the BBC covered the Commonwealth Games. I have never been the Corporation’s biggest fan, and I remain opposed to the principle of a global broadcasting tax on every household in the land, but there is no denying that they pull out all the stops when it comes to covering multi-sport events. From start to finish the coverage was the equal of that given to London 2012, and it will have done wonders for the image of Glasgow and Scotland in every continent and Commonwealth country. Even the sign-off after the sign-off got it absolutely right, with the incomparable Eddie Reader singing the full Burns Scots lyric of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ over the closing credits.
Clare off
Know what? I’ve had enough of Clare Balding. She’s a cheery, jolly, lady, and I’m sure she’s as nice in person as she is on the box. But there is no escaping her. Watch the BBC and she’ll be there. Most recently she’s seen us all the way through the Commonwealth Games, including a late night chat show from the reception area in Pacific Quay. I switched on Radio 2 this morning to catch up on the news and bloody hell, she was there too. When they close the show at Hampden tonight with a great big parade and party, (by the way, if the Proclaimers don’t preform it’ll be a disgrace) no prizes for guessing who’ll be co-presenting with Hazel Irvine? (Since when did our Hazel need a co-presenter?)
I had hoped for some respite, but no. For the past few days BBCtv has been trailing a new series about surgical procedures on very large animals. (What genius dreamed that one up?) It will be fronted by . . .? Yup. I’ll give that one a miss.
Come on Katie
As I write I’m watching the Commie Games women’s bike road race. Typical bloody cyclists: red lights seems to mean nothing to them.
Listing to port
Congratulations to all those on the short list for Scottish Crime Book of the Year; the winner will be announced at Bloody Scotland, our very own crime festival, which runs in Stirling from September 19 – 21. Yes, I’ll be there, on the last afternoon sharing a platform at 4:15pm in the Albert Halls, with the talented Caro Ramsay. I hope to see you there.
No such wumman
Note to the BBC caption department; ‘Bella Houston’ is, in fact, one word.
Let’s be non-**
I’m planning to start a campaign against PC in the media.
I’ll begin by targeting the infuriating newspaper habit of adding words in brackets in the middle of direct quotes, words that the speaker didn’t actually say. This is done presumably to make the meaning clear to all readers, but let’s face it, if a person is that dumb, he’s unlikely to be able to read the damn paper in the first place.
Then there’s the asterisk craze. The BBC website quotes Bradley Wiggins this morning as saying he might be ‘p***** off’ about something. For those in doubt, be might be ‘pissed off’. So?
Finally, there is the terrible compulsion TV has to apologise for every minor breach of the language code. During the Open last weekend, Ken Brown jokingly called a co-commentator ‘a smartarse’, for which he apologised a few seconds later, undoubtedly under orders from the production box. On several other occasions commentators apologised on air for golfer expletives after bad shots. Tell you what, guys. Try moving your effects mikes a little further away. If not, accept that if Tiger, etc., hit a bad shot, they may let one go, and live with it.
Poor Mark
Watching the Open on telly and wondering: why do the BBC persist in employing Mark James? His credentials include being the worst Ryder Cup captain in living memory, putting his name to an awful, graceless autobiography, and never paying a straight compliment when a sneer is available. Plus he’s a twerp.
Heroes
Having been off the reservation for a week or so, the first thing I have to do on return is to thank a few people: specifically, Dr Agnes Durie of Gullane Medical Practice, Mr David Lewis, consultant vascular surgeon, Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and his theatre team, and the staff of Wards 105 and 118, RIE, for the unsurpassable care that all of them lavished on my lovely wife, and most of all for giving her back to me.
You are all special.
To think again
Today, July 3, the people of Scotland are to be addressed by an Old Etonian twat who happens to be Prime Minister of the Westminster Parliament, although his party holds less than half of its seats. Against that background, it’s more than a little ironic that he will call on ‘The Silent Majority’ to speak out. A few words in that forthcoming speech leap out and grab me, those where he refers to ‘the silent majority who don’t want the risks of going it alone.’ In other words, he’s talking to conservatives with a small ‘c’, and to cowards, with a capital.
In fact, there is a silent majority in Scotland. The problem for Dave is that he doesn’t recognise it, because he and his colleagues have been sweeping its existence under the carpet for so long, they’ve forgotten about it. It’s made up of the Scots, twenty per cent of us, who live in poverty created by four decades of Westminster policies, and those of us who believe passionately that independence is the only way to reverse that unacceptable situation. In September, it will be our voices that will be heard.
Independence has nothing to do with ‘proud Edward’s army’, or any of that flowery crap. It’s about recreating the fair, just and honest society that we once had in Scotland before Westminster destroyed it, about restoring hope to the deprived, and about giving them and the next generations a future that they will never have under a government that has spent the last forty years gathering the nation’s wealth into a small corner of the south east.
I’ll see you outside, Charlie
BBC Breakfast has become so bland that there is little in it that anyone could find annoying, but this morning the colourless Charlie Stayt managed it, in spades. A brief report on Glastonbury was topped off by the fact that the most popular performer was not some dire cloned heavy metal outfit, but Dolly Parton, who drew a bigger crowd than anyone else. When the piece was over, read by his colleague Naga Munchkin, the idiot Charlie chipped in, portentously, ‘And she’s 68 years old.’
Having celebrated yet another birthday yesterday, I found myself perched on the edge of my chair, shouting ‘So f*cking what?!?’ at the telly. I am against most things that end in ‘ism’, but ‘ageism’ is right at the top of my list. Here’s a suggestion for the Breakfast production team. For a couple of weeks, replace Charlie with Ken Dodd . . . ‘And he’s 86 years old.’ . . . and see what happens to the viewing figures.
Last word on Suarez
When Tom (Tiny) Wharton, a Scottish football referee of my youth, passed away a few years ago, many stories were told about him, but this is my favourite:
While refereeing Hearts one Saturday, Tiny had particular trouble with a veteran winger named Johnny Hamilton, who was known for leaving his dentures in a glass in the dressing room during the game. Finally his patience was exhausted. He called the player to him (when Tiny called, you went) and said solemnly, ‘Mr Hamilton, the time has come for you to rejoin your teeth.’
Perhaps that is the simplest solution to Luis Suarez’ behavioural problem. Aesthetically it might not be a bad thing either, from his viewpoint, since the set with which God equipped him gives him an unfortunate resemblance to Francis the Talking Mule.
Chewed over
Four month global ban for Suarez; excessive, fair or insufficient?
I don’t go with any of those. Whatever you think of the gravity of the offence, it happened on the watch of the Uruguayan FA. When Suarez is with his club, he’s protected by its support systems. These include a psychologist and an extremely perceptive head coach. When he went off with Uruguay he went into an aggressive environment, where his transgression is barely recognised as such. Therefore isn’t it entirely logical that any penalty should impact on Uruguay alone?
As I understand it, when a player is on international duty, his club is indemnified against injury, by insurance. Not so in this case, unless Liverpool FC’s lawyers persuade Uruguay that it should compensate the club for the loss of his services.
Common sense says to me that a fairer disposition would have been a longer ban from international matches, and a fine, not on the player but on the Uruguayan FA, (which has plenty of previous over the years) leaving the club to deal internally with the matter.
But when did FIFA last display common sense?
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