Quintin Jardine's blog

Finally, sixteen years after its release, I got round to watching Get Shorty last night on DVD. A good Elmore Leonard adaptation, (But what happened in the end to Miguel Sandoval and his crew? [That guy has made a career playing Colombian drug barons.]) made even better by the presence of Rene Russo, who brings added value to every movie she makes. I note that after a long absence she’s back playing Odin’s wife Frigga in the otherwise ridiculous Thor, alongside Sir Anthony Hopkins as the Big O. For that reason alone, I will buy the DVD.

Tonight I may watch the sequel, Be Cool; which brings me to Uma Thurman . . .

Heading for Edinburgh shortly to record an interview with the lovely Shereen Nanjiani, for her Radio Scotland programme at 9am Sunday. Sadly she will be in Glasgow, but I won’t let that ruin my day.

How glad am I that I am not a Hearts supporter? You couldn’t possibly imagine.

I have a planning application on place at the moment with East Lothian Council. When I sorted my mail a few days ago, I found an invoice for £110, in respect of a public notice placed in the local newspaper. On enquiring why this had been necessary, I was told that it had been placed because ownership of land to the north of my property was not clear, and that statute allows such an ad to count as neighbour notification. In fact, the ground in question is owned by my eight immediate neighbours and me. A simple question to me or my agent would have revealed this and five more notification letters would have taken care of the issue and saved me £110. When I put this to the very nice lady at the cooncil, she explained that it is not its policy to ask. When I asked her what recourse I had she advised me, urged me even, to write to the Scottish Government. It seems that there is no desk in the grand and expensive offices of East Lothian Council on which the buck actually stops.

In this day and age it might seem  that the obvious no-cost solution is for such notifications to be placed on the websites of planning authority, but that doesn’t cut it. There can be no obligation on individuals to constantly check council sites on the off-chance that something might be happening that could have an adverse effect on  their property. Equally, there should be no obligation on them to buy and study the woeful rags that  most local newspapers have become, yet the present law seems to indicate that there is. And it seems that it does more, if councils such as mine are using it as an excuse for not making any effort to find out for themselves the answers to the simplest questions.

I’ve paid the bill. I had no choice, or my application would have been rejected. But I’m not letting it lie. Once I’ve posted this rant, I will be forwarding it to my councillor and probably to a few others in the hope of some satisfaction, however unlikely that may be.

Just been watching the cricket test on telly, and am now asking myself, who was that bloke they were calling Shane Warne? The guy in the commentary box had different teeth from the original, different hair, different eyes, and looked to be about ten kilos lighter. Yes, he sounded moderately like him, but no . . . please Ms Hurley, let us have the real Warnie back.

I am reading leaks today that the Chilcot Inquiry will throw large chunks of mud at Tony Blair over his handling of the Iraq war and associated matters. Regular readers of my blog will know that I have been contemptuous of this whole charade since it began and of the people who were appointed to conduct it, a collection of academics and mid-ranking public servants, of whom none seemed to have any special qualifications for the job. Even in advance of te report’s publication it remains my humble opinion that my Friday night crowd in the pub were just as fitted for the task and probably more so, since we have all lived and worked in the real world.

I am no Blair fan, and never really was, but I believe this hugely expensive farce to have been one of the biggest stitch-ups since . . . since the Hutton Inquiry. I am also cynical enough to believe that since it was set up by Blair’s hated successor, Captain Barbossa, the motives behind it were shall we say, less than altruistic.

Perhaps Dave will follow up Chilcot with an inquiry into how and why we came to be committed to a ten-year conflict in Afghanistan, with the tragedy of returning coffins which is being played out on a weekly basis. If he does, Eric, John, Keith, Ken and I stand ready to serve.

Back in Scotland after an interesting trip via Barcelona, where I visited my new bank and was introduced to Senor Campos, the manager. Amazingly, he revealed himself to be a Hibs supporter. (My Aussie pal Fred will love that.) Sr. Campos speaks no English, which must make his affliction a little easier. He’ll be pleased this evening though, his team having nicked an away win at Inverness, even of it was courtesy of a last minute comedy goal.

Hell of a weekend. Eileen had never heard of Janis Joplin. I had to explain who she was, and what became of her. For a while now, whenever I’ve read of another Amy Winehouse excess, I’ve found myself thinking of her. Some things may be inevitable, but that doesn’t mean we should resign ourselves to them. God knows, the government takes enough in tax from the sale of alcohol, so how about investing some of it in a system by which individuals would be licensed users? Doesn’t seem like a brain-buster to me, but it’s green-field thinking, whereas Westminster is strictly brown-field.

Our Frida’s mother was Norwegian. A couple of weeks ago we had the pleasure of meeting her uncle and aunt for the first time. Physically, they don’t live anywhere near Oslo, or Utoya Island, but in a sense we all do. Profound sympathies to the bereaved, to the survivors and to the entire nation.

I became disillusioned by Scottish football years ago. It began to die with the grandiose, unrealistic dreams of David Murray and was further wounded when smaller clubs reacted to the Bosman era by employing clapped-out Continentals thus denying careers in  the game to talented young Scots. It still has a pulse but it’s getting weaker by the year, and the idiots who are currently running it, none of whom appear to have a grounding in or understanding of my country, seem to be doing their best to finish it off.

For example, this is July 22. Tomorrow, the Scottish Premier League 2011 – 2012 season begins. This is madness. Okay, times have changed but the fact remains that the majority of Scottish families take their holidays in July. Many of these people will have bought season tickets for their clubs, and booked their flights and digs, all before the league programme was published. When you buy a season, you become a creditor of the club in question, and its debt is redeemed with every home match you attend. Thus, hundreds, probably thousands of fans across the country will not be receiving full value for their investment, and will effectively have been cheated by the clowns who drew up this ridiculous schedule.

If you think this is just QJ having a rant, I am not alone. For example, Terry Butcher has been forthright on the situation.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/14240916.stm

Terry, who has become a stalwart of the Scottish game, is actually a football man. The fact that he and people like him were presented with these fixtures as a fait accompli, shows the  lack of understanding of the realities of the game among its senior administrators. Or could it be that Scottish football has become just another business that holds its customers in contempt?

Back to the Murdochs, one last time, and to the final questioner during their inquisition, Louise Mensch, MP. Although the purpose of the hearing was quite specific, she managed to include in her line of questioning an assertion that Piers Morgan admits in his book ‘Insider‘ to having landed a story while editor of the Daily Mirror by hacking into someone’s phone. The only issue being . . . he didn’t. Not unnaturally, Piers . . . most people love him or hate him, but I’m indifferent . . . was outraged by this, not least because the allegation was made under the protection of parliamentary privilege.

I’ve just watched on YouTube, a nine minute interview with Mrs Mensch on CNN, Morgan’s current employer in the US. He joined in by telephone and invited her to withdraw  her remarks. She refused, but declined to repeat them, hiding once again behind the cloak of privilege. However she also refused to apologise; indeed she seemed to glory in the attention she was receiving, and in Morgan’s anger, accusing him of threats that again he did not in fact utter, as she smirked her way through the broadcast in a manner that most of her American audience must have found as appalling as did I.

Mrs Mensch and I have certain common business interests, so maybe I shouldn’t say this but I will. I believe that her use of her position to make apparently defamatory remarks, whoever the subject may be, without apology or even regret, is a disgrace to the House of Commons and brings it into disrepute. It may be that no sanctions exist that can be taken against her, but if there are, they should be invoked.

Bob Skinner is glorying right now in his back-door tipping of Darren Clarke to win the Open. I cannot let that stand without retaliation, but first, I’m going to tell you a story.

Thirty-one years ago, the Open came to Muirfield on the rota, and in common with the rest of Gullane, I took time off work to enjoy it all the way through. As fate had it, my good friend Doctor Golf was an exhibitor in the main commercial tent that year, selling his excellent custom made golf clubs under his Kugar brand. The practice then, and now for all I know, was for stand-renters to be invited to a press reception, with Bollinger, before the big show got under way. Since he was a beer man pure and simple, DG was kind enough to give me his invitation, in the hope that it might generate a little publicity. I’ve never been hugely keen on champagne at lunchtime, but I did my bit; a couple of bottle later, I managed to persuade Joan Simpson, from the Evening News, t0 accopmpany me back to the Kugar stand, with a view to including the range in a future piece, but really just to show the Doc a face.

As we left the reception area, I was speaking to Joan and so I failed to see the guy heading in the opposite direction, and bumped into him. He was a big man, bigger than me, and I’m not a midget. I blinked, looked up at him, and said ‘**** me, you’re Mark McCormack.’ For the younger set, and non-golfers, Mr McCormack was at that time the most celebrated sports agent in the world, founder and CEO of the International Management Group, now simply IMG, and a regular commentator on the BBCTV golf team. He was also a very nice man, for instead of grunting and going on his way, he smiled and said ‘I am indeed.’ My response was to ask him if he’d like to come and see my mate’s golf clubs, and he replied ‘Sure’. Thus it was that I made Doctor Golf’s day. I don’t know whether Mark bought any clubs, but his mere presence there was enough. A class act.

Which brings me back to where I began. IMG is still there, but sadly, its founder left us in 2003. Today, the hot ticket in golf management is Andrew Chandler, known as Chubby for very obvious reasons. It’s a remarkable fact that each of the three major championships contested this year has been won by a Chandler client, each one a first time winner. I regard that as an omen, and that is why I am tipping, as winner of next month’s US PGA, a fourth of Chubby’s boys, Lee John Westwood. Eat your heart out, Skinner, when he lifts the trophy.

Incidentally, I have one other memory of that day. As Mark swung Doctor Golf’s product, I happened to glance across at the opposite exhibit. I can’t recall whose it was but I do know that standing there was a young free and single Greg Norman. He was not alone; he had another sports star of the day at his side, tall, blonde, early twenties, and very attractive. No names, no pack drill, but every time I switch on Question of Sport these days, there she is, in the chair.

I’ve said it before but nobody listened so I’ll put the question again. Am I the only person who’s concerned about the apparent ease with which mobile phones can be monitored? When will the Culture Select Committee decide to call the enormously profitable telecommunications companies to account, and ask them what action they’re taking to protect their customers, something they have clearly failed to do in the past? It’s got to the stage at which I’m more than a little pissed off because my phone doesn’t appear to have been hacked. It’s like being the only kid on the street without an ASBO.

At times it may have dragged, but yesterday’s Murdoch inquisition made fairly compulsive viewing. Like most commentators, I thought for the first ten minute so so that Rupert was no longer firing on all cylinders, until Mr Sheridan MP bowled him a nice long hop, concerning a back door visit to Number 10. The old man seemed to wake up, smacked it for six in the manner of all good Aussies, and from that point was reasonably okay. That’s what the New York Stock Exchange thought, given the 5%+ rise in Newscorp shares. Yes, questions of corporate governance may have been left hanging in the air, but you can bet that where the act needs sharpening up it will be and that all of his editors will have Rupert growling in their ears much more frequently, for a while at least.

Overall, I thought that James performed pretty well, all things considered. I say that, because if I were him, viewing the tapes today, I’d be firing my PR advisers. If I’d been briefing him, he would have gone in there with a complete, detailed timeline so that every time he was asked to put a date on something, for example, when he first became aware of an occurrence, he’d have had the answer literally at his fingertips. That’s basic stuff and they didn’t do it.

As for the pie-chucker, those around the incident might possibly have let Mrs Murdoch get a few more shots in before he was huckled away. I read this morning that he’s been charged with a public order offence and bailed to appear before magistrates later this week. I’m sure he’ll be given more than a slap on the wrist, but I suspect that worse will befall the person in charge of security for the hearing.

Good to hear from you again. If I’m free and can do anything else for Poppy Scotland, I’d be glad to help.

Further to my ‘xenophobia’ post a few days ago, just for fun and with tongue slightly in cheek, I went through the step-by-step process of submitting an on-line complaint to the BBC about the anti-Scottish ‘joke’ to which I had taken exception in one of my grumpier moments. Today I received a response from a lady named Joanne Docherty. This is the relevant part of her message:

‘It is a recognised and traditional part of British humour to make jokes about people within the British Isles. For example, the English are lampooned as “stuck up” and superior in their attitude to other races.

‘One can argue that telling jokes about any nationality is wrong but usually such jokes are affectionate and free from malice. We do not wish to compile a list of banned subjects but do try to ensure that jokes on certain subjects are not overdone, and also that they are genuinely funny.’

I don’t believe that Joanne, or the Corporation quite grasp the true situation. This One doesn’t argue that telling jokes about any nationality is wrong but . . .

Correct me if I’m mistaken, but as a Jock, I feel that I have a degree of licence to crack as many Jock jokes as I choose, because I’m poking fun at myself. However, if I go on live telly and crack one, in my distinctively Scottish accent,  that casts an Englishman as a stuck-up, snobbish, effete twerp, I am likely to cause offence to a significant chunk of the viewing audience. Likewise jokes about sheep and Welshmen, (or New Zealanders)  or the time-honoured Irish one-liners. In other words, whenever humour crosses borders and targets (or ‘lampoons’) another national group, then often, and for many, it will cease to be funny.

If the BBC really believes that it can dress offensive remarks in a cloak of affection, then it really does not understand the nations that it serves. Time for broadcasting to be devolved completely to Holyrood and for the Scottish Broadcasting Corporation to be created. Its motto? Forget that crappy, limp-wristed ‘Nations Shall Speak Peace Unto Nations‘. My SBC  wouldn’t look beyond ‘Nemo Me Impune Lacessit‘, which, for the non-Latin speakers among us translates very roughly as ‘Watch It Jimmy!‘

Eileen and I spent yesterday afternoon glued to the telly, and she’s not even a golfer. AJ will tell you that I am the world’s worst tipster, so I eschewed from going public on my fancy, although Bob Skinner was bold enough to predict on Facebook that An Irishman would win. He hasn’t told me whether he meant That Irishman, but given his shrewdness I suspect that he did. I certainly had a sneaking fancy for him, in the conditions that were forecast.

Not all things that are meant to be will happen. This one did: the image of Big Darren holding up the Claret Jug is so right that it grabs your gut. Right for a whole raft of reasons; he’s come through personal tragedy to find another happy place, he’s secured his standing in the game, and he’s made sure that he’s not going to be forgotten with the rise of his younger compatriots, GMac and Rors. He’s up there on a par with them as a major winner, and I am sure those lads would agree that is beyond appropriate.

When it was over, I found myself trying to recall a more popular Open Champion. I can’t, and I have to go back to the eighties, to Seve and to Sandy Lyle, to find anyone on a similar level. I’d like to be able to say Nick Faldo, who,  for my money, was the best player these islands have ever produced, but he was so focused on his game that he never took the time to make himself loved. That’s the secret ingredient in the mix of greatness.

Further to the resignation of Sir Paul Stephenson, having read all of his statement I find much of it lacking in logic, and the rest riddled with self-praise and bull-shit. In its totality, I don’t believe a ******* word of it. The Home Secretary said it took her by surprise. If that’s so she can’t be very close to her colleague Boris, who revealed that he and the departing top cop had a discussion about his intention, before coming to the shared conclusion that it was probably  appropriate. In the aftermath the politicians were united in their praise of Sir Paul, declaring that the force has moved forward under his leadership. If progress means going from shooting an innocent electrician seven times in the head, as happened in his predecessor’s time, to simply assaulting a drunk newspaper seller who later died of a heart attack, then you can’t argue with that. Come on, T & B, if he was that good, you should have kept him on.

Sorry, you cannot step around one clear connection. Yesterday morning, Sir Paul was revealed to have stayed for free . . . with his wife . . . at a health resort, while recovering from an injury sustained during an operation to remove a pre-cancerous growth. The media made much of a connection between the resort and Neil ‘The Wolfman’ Wallis, the former NoW exec hired by the Met as a grand a day consultant, but to me that is quite irrelevant. Forget Wallis; forget the Commissioner’s acceptance of News International hospitality on 14 occasions. Sir Paul took a quite unnecessary five-week freebie, which he still asserts was entirely proper. Maybe so, but he resigned on the day the story broke. 

When I’m in Spain I tend to tune in to news channels fairly regularly, so last night I caught the resignation of Sir Paul Stephenson shortly after it happened. I have to say that it was not the BBC’s finest hour, not that they’ve had many of those lately. As the situation evolved, News 24’s late night presenter, Annita McVeigh, seemed to elbow Jane Hill, her calm co-host, aside as she became more and more strident in her efforts to dictate events rather than report them.

The buzz word in the Corporation these days seems to be ‘talent’. Not a lot apparent in Ms McVeigh, I’m afraid. As I watched, I found myself recalling the time when her colleague Carrie Gracie attempted to bully my friend the Lord Foulkes, and was handed her head in a basket, live on telly, and I found myself hoping that some one would give her the same treatment. Step up, Boris Johnson, Mayor of London. Bob Skinner thinks that Boris is a buffoon, and it’s certainly true that a comparison between his DNA and that of Coco the Clown would yield interesting results. However he is a very bright buffoon, much too bright for Ms McVeigh, as she should have realised very early in their conversation. Poor Annita. While it’s often wise to quit while you’re ahead, it’s almost invariably wiser to chuck it when you’re six goals down and playing into the wind. She didn’t know that, and in her ignorance she compounded her misfortune by quoting criticism of the Mayor by his predecessor, Red Ken Livingstone. This was the equivalent of my grand-dog Benny bowling an off-break to Garfield Sobers, and the result was as predicted.

The virus that is Jeremy Paxman (Incidentally, I couldn’t believe it on Saturday when the chair of the BBC Trust said in interview that he doesn’t know how much Paxman is paid.) seems to have spread to more and more of his colleagues these days. News programmes are becoming arenas, and political interviewees are seen universally as targets for rudeness and aggression. That’s how it was last night,  but God, how I love those rare occasions when a sacrificial Christian kicks the shit out of the lions.

Sometimes I have to read a news story two or three times before I believe it. Sometimes I have to check the masthead of the paper to make sure it isn’t a Daily Mash spoof.

Today has given me one of those moments. You have the Commissioner of the Met staying for free in a luxury health club while recuperating from an injury, with the force’s public affairs department trying to justify it. (Hold on, I must read it again.) No, I didn’t have a CRAFT moment, that’s what it says. And more: the same story reveals that Sir Paul Stephenson was offered hospitality by News International on 15 occasions and accepted 14 times.

As my dear old granny probably wouldn’t have said, that simply buggers belief. I expect the heavy hand of Mayor Boris Johnson to fall on Sir Paul’s shoulder any time now, as he booms the fateful words, ‘You’re nicked!’