Portia
I have nothing but scorn for Mr Jeremy Forrest, who will go down, I trust, for a few years for conducting an illicit, and adulterous, relationship with a fifteen year old pupil, and for absconding with her to France. However I have nothing but contempt for Ms Portia Ragnauth, of the Crown Prosecution Service, a peculiar and often inept English body, which grows more fascist by the day.
Speaking at the conclusion of his trial, the idiotic woman cast a slur on the entire teaching profession, by hanging the sins of one man around its neck, as she seized her fifteen minutes of fame on the courthouse steps after Forrest’s conviction. I was brought up by teachers and in my life I’ve married two of them. I’ve also observed the legal profession during my working life, so I know damn well that for every Jeremy Forrest there is at least one bent lawyer, and probably many more. The teaching profession is manifestly honourable and just as manifestly under-rewarded. The man brought shame and disgrace on himself, and the school where the affair went on undetected has questions to answer, but he is a very rare exception and that should be acknowledged.
And another
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-22965155
Oh Rose Marie . . .
Soprano silenced
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-22980414
RIP Big Tony.
In defence of golf
I’m on record as saying that I believe Kenneth Roy to be Scotland’s finest campaigning journalist, but even my idols have feet of clay. I am not entirely sure why he chose to found his lead article in yesterday’s Scottish Review on his vision of the evils of the game of golf, but having done so, his sense of balance seems to have deserted him. When he wrote, ‘in golf, the racist jibe goes unpunished. In golf sexism is positively rewarded’, he let himself down, and he insulted millions of people around the globe who play the game, at all levels, without a racist or sexist bone in their body.
I accept that Sergio Garcia’s ‘fried chicken’ remark was atrocious, even though it was made in response to a light-hearted question by a comedian at European pro golf’s annual hair-down dinner, and was made in his second language, English, not his first, Spanish. Sergio seems to have accepted that himself, going by the speed and apparent sincerity of his public apology. If he has been unable to do so privately, that may not be his fault. Sure, the cynics will say that he was protecting his endorsement earnings, but the warmth of his welcome at the subsequent Wentworth tournament indicated that the golfing galleries have more generosity of spirit than any of the people who write about or comment on the sport.
Far from being racist, golf has become a multiracial sport, as a glance at the world rankings will demonstrate. I cannot recollect any racist slur being directed openly at Vijay Singh, Jeev Milkha Singh, Y. E. Yang, Guan Tianlang, Ryo Ishikawa, Simon Khan, K J Choi, Jason Day, or any other male golfer. As for the female game it is so dominated by the Koreans that the thought would never occur. Apart from Garcia’s unfortunate jibe, the only other high-profile accusation of racism that I can recall in recent years was levelled against Steve Williams, Tiger Woods’ former caddy, and that also involved the Tiger. Could it be that neither remark was in anyway racially motivated but instead flowed from the simple fact that neither Williams nor Garcia like the man? Whether that is the case or not, to condemn golf and by implication its devotees as ‘racist’ on the basis of two isolated incidents is quite ridiculous.
As for the tired old saw of the men only Honourable Company . . . I have lived less than half a mile from Muirfield for over forty years and I have never been aware of a queue of potential lady members stretching along Duncur Road. When the first rejected lady decides to picket the place, I may well join her in support, but I am not polishing my shooting stick in anticipation. Kenneth, its policy may be indefensible to you, but surely you can do better than vaguely raking through the bones of the George Pottinger affair, forty years in the past. And if you must, you should do the late Gianni Manca the courtesy of spelling his name correctly.
For the record, I am a member of Gullane Golf Club, Muirfield’s nearest neighbour, which is also men only. Gullane Ladies Golf Club is a separate associate body, with shared clubhouse facilities, and everyone is quite happy with that arrangement. Like it or loathe it, golf is a game most played by men against men and by women against women, therefore it is quite natural that its club structure should have evolved to mirror that.
The HCEG is an easy target at which to aim, but pretty much impossible to hit, for one very simple reason. Its members own the course. If a majority of their wives demanded that an associate club for ladies be set up, and their husbands knew what was good for them, that might be a possible way forward, but I have heard no whisper of support for that concept.
I am not a Muirfield member, and have never wished to join, but if my wife or my daughter did, I would probably lobby on their behalf. But why should they, when they can join Gullane Ladies instead, and be part of a well-structured, open institution where ladies and gentlemen have their own distinct entities, and which is far more typical of the sport than the place along the road?
Joe Kinnear
My wife is not a great football lover, but she is a Geordie. It took only a few minutes of a radio interview with Newcastle United’s new ‘Director of Football’, Mr Joe Kinnear, in which he poured scorn on the club’s fans, to have her yelling at him to ‘go back to Tottenham’.
For those who would like to hear all fifteen minutes of Joe’s ‘suicide tape’, here’s a link.
Pay up
Something momentous happens in L’Escala in mid-June; overnight it becomes very easy to find a space in the town’s car parks. Why? Because that’s the time of year when the parking meters go up and charges come into effect for the summer. It’s also the time when the locals start to leave their cars at home and walk to work, or to the beaches.
A Catalan and his money are not easily parted.
Home at last
Back in Spain, courtesy of Lufthansa via Frankfurt, the first time I have ever set foot on German soil.
A very slick modern airport, but with the most expensive shops I’ve ever seen.
On tour
With Sue and Chris, the enterprising owners of Atkinson-Pryce, Biggar, Scottish Bookseller of the Year.
Merde
Right now, I should be back in Spain. I’m not. Instead I’ve spent the day on an expensive return trip to Newcastle Airport, where I sat for three hours, until Ryanair finally decided they were going to cancel my flight, something they could and probably should have done 24 hours earlier.
The blame for this fiasco hangs round the neck of French air traffic controllers. It is not easy to discern at these people thought they would achieve by inconveniencing air travellers across Europe, destroying the holidays of many families. I saw kids in tears this afternoon. Whatever their grievance is they’ll have no sympathy from me or any other of their victims. For my part, I hope the jackboot of authority comes slamming down on their necks, good and hard.
What’s that about?
I am as solid a monarchist as there is, but I find myself asking how the hell Camilla, Duchess of Rothesay, is in any way an appropriate choice as Chancellor of Aberdeen University. Is it a stunt?
I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice lady, but she doesn’t exactly bring gravitas to the ancient office.
Newton Mearns
Looking forward to this evening’s engagement in Newton Mearns, in a bistro venue appropriately named ‘Primavera’.
One to remember
You know how Ryanair insist that any duty free you buy at the airport must be put in your cabin bag, max weight 10kg?
Travelling through Girona last week I was interested to see signs all over the terminal advising that Spanish law entitles passengers to take a purchase bag on board in addition to their cabin baggage. I didn’t see anyone try it but i’m waiting for the day when it happens.
Radio radio
Busy guy last three days, and Sunday too. 5pm BST this evening, I’m on our community station, East Coast FM, with a mix of chat and music. You can listen on line or on 107fm in East Lothian.
Garth
We’ve lost another good man in East Lothian. So far, 2013 has been a hellish year.
Sir Garth Morrison, KT, was the county’s Lord Lieutenant, the UK’s former Chief Scout, a one-time submariner, a successful farmer, and a most generous supporter of our community. My heartfelt condolences to Gill and her family.
You can’t go home again
So Jose’s back at Chelsea. I seem to recall that he was fired last time because his football wasn’t attractive enough. What has changed?
Live by them
In the wake of the current ‘scandal’ stories, we are told that our weak-kneed, dysfunctional government is looking at ways of giving constituencies the power to recall their MPs, ie sack them.
No way.
I’m a firm believer in the principle that we should live with the consequences of our own mistakes . . . including those that are made in the secrecy of the polling booth.
Stung
I admit to being slightly underwhelmed by reports in recent days of Parliamentarians and their ‘availability’ to lobbyists. This is old news, and not worth the fuss that’s being made. While it’s all a bit seedy, nobody died, and nobody appears to be lying. Apart from . . .
These stories have been generated by deliberate acts of deception by a couple of broadsheet newspapers and by the BBC’s vicious, morally questionable, Panorama programme. Their reporters posed as lobbyists and lured their targets into setting themselves up. That’s entrapment, pure and simple. How could it be legitimate reporting? The story didn’t exist until they set it up.
How were these people targeted? Is it a mere coincidence that Patrick Mercer MP is one of Dave Cameron’s fiercest critics within his own party? I think we should be told.
The sooner the proposed register of lobbyists is set up the better, to protect the public interest and to protect MPs and Peers from themselves.
See you Thursday?
The Coronation isn’t the only significant event to chalk up a big anniversary this year. It’s twenty years since the publication of my very first novel, Skinner’s Rules. I’ll be celebrating that milestone at the launch of Skinner 23, Pray for the Dying, at an event in Biggar on Thursday, June 6. It’s being organised by the town’s excellent independent bookshop, Atkinson-Pryce, which celebrates its own twentieth anniversary by being named Scottish Bookseller of the year for 2013.
The gig takes place in the Elphinstone Hotel, Biggar, kick-off 7:30pm. Tickets are still available from the bookshop, telephone 01899 2212125.
60 years on
What did you do on Coronation Day? (Always assuming that you were around then.)
I watched it on a twelve -inch black and white 405-line television screen, in our house in Motherwell. My uncle and aunt were there too, as they hadn’t joined the limited ranks of telly owners at that stage. It went on for a hell of a long time, more than the attendance span of my cousins and I, for I remember playing in the rain at one point in the afternoon. A day or so later, our street had a party in a community hall. The kids all did turns. I sang a song called ‘In a Golden Coach’ for which I received a warm ovation; it was the beginning and end of my show-biz career.
The other referendum
In Scotland, the Independence debate is in full swing, and it will carry on until the day that our votes are cast.
In Catalunya, a similar referendum will be held next year, albeit without the agreement of Spain’s central government. Nine months ago there was a great outpouring of nationalist sentiment, when fifteen percent of the Catalan population demonstrated in the streets of Barcelona, demanding a total split from Spain. Today, the independence flags are still flying, but there seems to be little discussion of the subject.
A L’Escala businessman friend of mine gave me an interesting insight a couple of weeks ago. ‘It’s all right asking for it,’ he said. ‘But how do me make it work? Where will the money come from? We need to think about that.’ That’s what the argument here is really about. The Catalans believe they are being ripped off by Madrid; at its heart their grievance is financial. They might vote ‘Yes’, but only if the money is right. They won’t bet the house on sentiment.
I hope we’re above that in Scotland. My mind was made up forty years ago. Next year I’ll vote with my heart and soul, not with my wallet.
