Come back, Tom Shields!

It's no use. The Old Buffer sprung his retirement on us on 9 November 2013 and I'm still opening my copy of the Herald wondering: Is this a Tom Shields day? 

The golden days were when Tom was writing the Herald Diary and his columns at the same time. I still have the books published using the best bits of the Herald Diary and I have his collection of columns from 2012: 57 Varieties of Tomato. Both treasures. (All available at good bookshops. Buy them there - not from Amazon. Please.) He had some kind of meltdown early in the 2000s and reduced his workload. Good for  him but sad for us. He started splitting his time between the West End and the community allotment in Barcelona, and that brought a wee gleam back to his eye. Then he cut back to 3 columns a week and it's been downhill ever since. 

I've nothing against any of the people now occupying his slot (left centre page, bottom right). They're just not Tom Shields. They write a lot about themselves. Frankly, who cares about them? Tom Shields rarely wrote about his life but had plenty of insights into life in the west of Scotland and Barcelona and, well, life in general. 

So, if you don't mind, Herald editor, could you get him back, please? He said on retirement he'd be doing occasional pieces for the Sunday Herald but I haven't seen any. So lean on him or offer him money or loose women, but find some way to let us celebrate Ne'erday in style, with a Tom Shields column. 

For these err may mounnn-tains

On my wasted journey round Silverburn tonight, circling the great temple of Mammon but never actually getting anywhere near a shop, I had time to flick through a few radio stations while I sat in the long, long queue of cars heading for the exit.

I don't know who's filling in for Steve Wright on Radio 2 but dear me, their taste in music is beyond bad. Clyde 1 only seems to play Avicii or Nicholas MacDonald. I've not idea what Real Radio was playing - Rehab figured in there somewhere - very suitable for this time of year - I didn't pause long enough to find out. Smooth Radio was playing some of its 500 best something or other tunes, none of them very good, but the DJ was waxing furious about Paris Hilton who has apparently made it into the list of the top 6 DJs in the world. His argument seemed to be that Paris knows nothing about music or DJ-ing but is just playing at it. In his opinion, it's a bit like you or me thinking we could just go off and be a doctor or a dentist. What a nerve, eh? Myself, I wouldn't put being a DJ quite at the level of medicine or dentistry but I switched stations before I could hear any more. And someone was singing:

"For these err may mounnn-tains end this is may glen" and my wee heart sank. For I realised it is New Year! New Year, the time when anyone who lives in Scotland and loves Scottish music crawls into a corner and waits for us to get past Ne'erday - no, make that get past Burns Night.

O the times I've thought: just shoot me now. One of my friends sang The Road and the Miles To Dundee at a Ne'erday party in my house. I've never heard a more dreadful song, but I was told you can't say that because it's Scottish. She sang it in a semi-English accent. I toyed with the idea of going home but I was home. I sat through a rendition of Ca' The Yows Tae the Knowes - or Call the Yows To the Knowes as the singer called it, enunciating carefully - in a school hall and had to dig my nails into my arms to stop myself screaming: "Yer Scottish - gonny jist sing it Scottish!"

At some point, the accordion will appear, and the bagpipes. There will be a fiddle orchestra too. All introduced by Jackie Bird. It will mostly be poor quality stuff intended for an audience living furth of Scotland. And I just know all my exiled Scottish friends will be in ecstasies.

And no, it's not 'Scottish' music I dislike. It's bad Scottish music. I like the Proclaimers, Julie Fowlis, Karine Polwart and many others. They have some great songs.

There's a terrific list on Wikipedia if you're interested:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Scottish_folk_singers

You just won't hear much from them before the end of January.

Moving - let the fun begin

I've only just started getting ready to move house and it's doing my head in.

I've already lost the rag tonight because of Google's idiotic blog system which locks me out every couple of days - not a good idea when I wanted to get into the blog for a good rant!

Every agency I have to deal with has a form to fill in to do with change of address. And no, you can't fill the form in online and email it back. You have to print it off, fill it in by hand and post it or take it in. I know what that means before I even start: forms will get lost in the post, cheques for forwarding mail will get lost. I may start off thinking being there in person will prevent chaos breaking out but I'll bet it doesn't. The phone will be just as bad: messages will be garbled, names misspelled, information will not be passed on.

In the case of the Royal Bank, there are 3 separate forms for me to fill in. I've already decided I'm going to the branch to do that because experience tells me that way I'll at least get somebody's name and can then hold him or her to account when it all goes t*ts up. As it will.

The factor doesn't have a procedure for finalising my account and refunding my deposit (£500) and, given how bad they are at responding to any letter, it'll be a miracle if I get my money by summer. Of course, despite the fact I pay these bandits £120 a month in maintenance, I'll probably end up owing them money, so the deposit may never materialise.

The council tax form from East Renfrewshire Council is 5 - FIVE - pages long. I can't imagine how people without a degree manage to fill it in.

The Virgin Media website says I can transfer TV, phone and broadband online. I'll bet I can't.

Everything needs proof of identity. Renting the house across the road was bad enough. I have a passport but I don't have a driving licence with a photo - yes, I'm that old. Nor do I have printed bank statements - I bank online. Nor can I find 3 utility bills dated in the last three months - Scottish Gas is between quarters. But at least I know my credit is good, since I had to pay the letting agent to get a credit check carried out.

And, of course, despite my OCD tendencies and my endless list-making, I just know there will be one vital bit I forget in the move. And it will take me months to sort out. I wonder what it will be. Suggestions on a postcard...

Nigella

Years ago, I used to listen to talks by John Diamond on Radio 4. He was a great talker, soft-spoken and very clear. He was also a very good writer, with a fine wit and good insight and a sharp turn of phrase. I vaguely remember reading then he had a wife and kids, although he never mentioned them in his talks. I was grateful for that because I hate writers who raid their own lives and lay them out in the media for the world to see.

When John Diamond got sick with cancer and had to have most of his tongue removed, I remember thinking how awful it was for him, a radio person, to lose his ability to talk. I also thought how unfair it was on his kids, who were very young.

It was years before I realised his wife was Nigella Lawson. She is the daughter of Nigel Lawson, one-time Chancellor of the Exchequer under Thatcher. I thought then: it takes a special kind of narcissist to make up a name for a child based on his own. When Nigella Lawson began appearing on TV in cookery shows, I also remember thinking it was good she was able to support her kids. I didn't know then she was already in tow with Charles Saatchi.

I don't watch cookery programmes - the less time I spend in the kitchen these days the better it suits me. That said, I do watch the Hairy Bikers but that's more for the bikes and the scenery than anything. I suspect Nigella's audience is mainly men, most of them staring right down her cleavage. She's done a good job of creating the Nigella brand. She's got TV shows in the US, I believe. Or at least she had until the Grillo girls and Charles Saatchi stepped in last week.

You have to hand it to the Grillo girls' defence team: it was a master stroke to depict Nigella Lawson as a cocaine-addled nutjob handing out drugs to her kids. And I suppose you have to hand it to Charles Saatchi too for fuelling the doubts about Nigella's reliability by adding yet more information about the drug use. So the Grillo girls got off and Charles Saatchi got his revenge on his ex-wife. He strikes me as a man you wouldn't want to beat at Scrabble unless you had your running shoes on and, of course, he's going to get his revenge on the Grillo girls too by suing them. Well, he's rich. He can afford to do it and, as a friend of his put it this week, he couldn't care less what anybody thinks of him. And Nigella? Well, chances are, given the squeamishness of US television people she'll lose her contracts there.

Of course, she also has the press and TV to thank for the publicity she's received over the past weeks. I switched off BBC 'national and international news' last night because the main item was Nigella Lawson. But ITV and Sky news were the same. Is there really nothing else more important happening
in the world or have we become so obsessed with 'celebrities' we're in danger of disappearing up our own erse? Or could it be that the media hate successful women, especially the ones who don't fall over themselves to bare their souls - or anything else - in the press?

I googled Nigella Lawson and read a wee bit about her. Her mother was a depressive and probably a drunk and battered her kids. If they hadn't been a politician's kids, they'd have been whisked off to a place of safety by social workers. In addition to losing her first husband to throat cancer, she also lost her sister to breast cancer. No much luck in life so far. And it doesn't look as if things will be getting better any time soon.

Fresh or what?

I like avocados. When I went to Chile, I realised that a lot of our family-by-marriage own fields full of avocado trees - and grow loads of aubergines, grapes, tomatoes and other plants that are fairly unusual in Scotland but are everywhere in Chile.

Our Nelly in an avocado field belonging to Don Luis, her brother-in-law. 

About a fortnight ago, I bought a couple of avocados in the supermarket. They were pretty small, pretty dear (79p each) and pretty hard but I thought if I softened them up they'd be great. I kept them in daylight on the kitchen counter rather than the fridge. And I waited. A week later, I tried opening one up and discovered it was still rock hard. I pried it out of its skin and ate it but it had the texture - and flavour - of a stone. Yesterday I tried the other one. Still fit only to be used as ammunition. I tried eating it but finally threw it out. 

Today I went to Whole Food Market and bought two avocados. They cost me 1.79 for the two and the taste is a world away from last week's experience. They are marked 'ripe' and they are. They are also marked 'Produce of Chile' which really pleased me. I ate one tonight with chopped organic tomato (also from Whole Food) and a wee bit of salad dressing. A feast. No other word for it. 

I'm guessing wherever the supermarket avocados came from, they were imported over a long distance and refrigerated. I don't mind supermarkets doing that but I would like them to come clean and tell me the produce is chilled. I'm a grown up. I can work out chilled avocados will be the same as chilled pears or tomatoes or apples or bananas: keep them as long as you like but they'll never ripen. One day they'll be rock hard and the next they'll be rotten. 

Next time I'm in Sainsbury's I'll ask if I can make a suggestion and recommend they supply food fit for eating instead of cannonballs. And next time I'm in Whole Food Market, I'll compliment them on stocking Chilean avocados that taste the way they should. 

Born to care?

Friends who are 'carers' for their elderly relatives will be pleased to learn that I'm getting a touch of the treatment they all too often get from those they look after. And it's an eye-opener.

I volunteer from time to time with Contact the Elderly. It's a great charity, set up to try to combat the loneliness of old age by including the very elderly in a range of social events. Yesterday, I agreed to pick up two elderly ladies and drive them to afternoon tea in a house shared by another eight elderly people, looked after by two wonderful carers.

I know my two ladies quite well now. One is very funny, chatty and loves her outings. She's quite a reader and also keeps herself up to date with current events via the TV. She walks with a stick and is not always too steady on her feet, so I always give her my arm to the car and put her in the front passenger seat. We have rare blethers as I drive.

I know the other lady does not like this. There's absolutely nothing wrong with her mobility and her health seems fine so she goes in the back of the car. She's deaf and it seems she won't wear her hearing aid. She ignores everything I tell her. So when I'm helping her into the car, I say: 'Put your bum onto the seat first and I'll help you to swing your legs round.' No, no, not her. She complains about how dark it is (it's broad daylight) and how she can't see where the seat is. We need a torch, she says. I tell her we don't have a torch (we've had this conversation a few times already this year) but we'll be fine: I'll help her and make sure nothing happens to her. Finally, I get her into the car. Now for the seatbelt. I know this is going to be traumatic (it has been every time I've picked her up). I pull the seatbelt out, pass it across her middle and put the buckle in her hand. I tell her to hold on to it while I go round the other side of the car and plug in the buckle. By the time I've gone round the car, she has somehow managed to pass the seatbelt round the back of her head, losing hold of the buckle in the process. I go back to her side of the car and we start again. I say: 'Hold onto the buckle and don't move.' I can hear myself getting sharp. I can also hear the lady in the front laughing - she too has been through before - often.

Eventually we get to the house we're visiting. I always leave plenty time for the loading and unloading of the car. I take the lady with the stick up the ramp first and hand her over to the carer on duty at the door. I go back for the second lady. I've told her I'll be back for her and to stay in the car because it's pouring rain. No, she's out of the car and wandering away from the ramp towards the steps. 'There's steps, there's steps!' she tells me. 'I'll not manage the steps.' I reassure her and guide her to the ramp. Again, she complains it's dark and she can't see where she's going. Every few yards, she stops dead and says nervously: 'Are there any more steps?' 'No steps,' I say. 'No steps at all!' Finally, we get into the house.

I deliver her to a seat in the conservatory next to the Christmas tree. The carers serve sherry and I notice she has two glasses. When I look over, she's talking quite happily to the person next to her. What was that about being deaf?

An hour later, our hostesses serve afternoon tea. Both my ladies eat well: sandwiches, vol-au-vents, wee sausage rolls, mince pies, mini eclairs, washed down by plenty of tea. As we're helping to clear away the tea things, one of the carers tells me one of my ladies is getting agitated about making sure she's home in time for her evening meal which is served at 5pm. Yes, it's the 'deaf' lady, of course. I remind her I've spoken to the kitchen staff in her sheltered housing block and they'll plate her meal and keep it till she gets there. She frets loudly to everyone around her for the rest of the afternoon.

Just after 5, we go through the steps on the ramp and the getting in the car and the putting on of the seatbelt performance in reverse. This time the rain is torrential and I'm soaked from dashing round the car in pursuit of the seatbelt buckle. I drop the ladies off. It's only been four hours and I'm knackered.

I really want to tell the 'deaf' lady she's a whiny old git. But I know the complaining is pure attention seeking and she does it because she's lonely. But dear reader, if you're a full-time - or even a part-time - carer, I take my hat off to you - chapeau!

The Evils of Amazon

Some of the wee kids in our family are already old enough at 4, 5 and 6 to know what they want for Christmas. This is a two-edged sword: all is well if you can get what they want. So for one it was a princess doll that turns into a mermaid. For another it was a race track with miniature cars. Both of these were in stock in the shops so that was easy. The third wanted the Operation game with the Minions on the front of the box. ToysRus - sold out. Tesco Direct, Asda Direct, Argos - the same. A Google search revealed this was obviously the game every kid in the UK wanted Santa to bring. For various reasons, I'd left it quite late to shop for it. The only place it was available was Amazon.

I try not to do business with Amazon. I saw bits of the recent TV documentary about their employment practices and it was pretty horrifying. But before that I'd seen and heard some horror stories about their zero hours contracts, low wages, sending people home in the middle of a shift because they didn't need them - sometimes in the middle of the night.

I'd also noticed a trend in Amazon, now that it has cornered so much of the book market especially the Kindle market, to set prices that are starting a to look like they've been plucked out of the air. So a newly released book by a popular writer - say Lee Child - could be priced at £15.99 for hardback, £16.99 for paperback and the same for the Kindle version. I'm not paying those prices. I order my books from my local library or, if it's a book I want my own copy of, I buy it in a chain store. In kids's books, luckily, there are other online options and I use them. Foreign language DVDs have also shot up in price on Amazon - anything up to £22 a time.

I was in a tight corner here, so close to Christmas and I was going to have to bite the bullet. So how much was the Minions Operation game? From other suppliers: £22.99. from Amazon first time I looked, £32.99. When I went back in to the site next day, it was £35.99. Boy was I mad - but I didn't really have a choice.

It's made me even more determined to avoid buying from Amazon.

Mandela

I went to South Africa nearly 30 years ago. I went with friends to visit people who worked for the Leprosy Mission in Swaziland and we had to land at Johannesburg and drive across to Manzini.

It was the apartheid era and we found out the reality of the political set-up before we'd even left the airport. At the car hire, we collected our keys and went to pick up our cases and head off to the car park. The white woman behind the desk looked quite shocked: "Leave them," she said, "The boy will get them." She waved and a black man in his 60s came over and started putting our cases on to a trolley. My friend's husband tried to help and was told off by the car hire woman: "Let him do his job." To be honest, this old man looked too frail for the job...

In our 10 hour drive, we had a few comfort stops. We had a late lunch on the South African side of the border in a restaurant where all the customers were white and all the waiters were black. The portions served were huge. We ordered something described on the menu as 'baby beef' which turned out to be steaks so big they overlapped the edges of the plates. Soft drinks came in large bottles. The request for coffee brought us a cafetiere each. The prices were ridiculously low. I imagine the wages of our very attentive waiters were also low.

We'd come from a country where we routinely boycotted South African goods: Nice grapes. Nope. Put them back. They're South African. The signs of apartheid and of downright inequality were glaring. Once we got lost - turned right instead of left - and found ourselves off the tarmac road and driving over a red dust road through an African township. The contrast with white South Africa couldn't have been clearer as we went from large houses set back from the road and surrounded by high walls and electric fences to shacks we weren't sure even had electricity or running water.

In South Africa, Swaziland and on a wee side trip to Mozambique we met many white South Africans. They were all very friendly. They lamented the boycott that kept major sporting events away from their borders. They really missed the golf and the rugby. We didn't argue. We were guests in their part of the world but we made sure people knew we had come to visit Swaziland not South Africa.

When Mandela was released from prison, I sat in front of my TV and watched him walk out. It was very moving. Here was a man we had only ever heard of. He made a speech. I had the sense, as we all did, that this was the start of a new era in South Africa.

Shortly after that, I went to work back in Argyll & Bute. I was running a course for teachers in a hotel and, as always, spent the evening with the course participants in the bar. At one point, I went up to get a round in. I was served by a young - white - woman with a strong South African accent. I asked her where she came from. Pretoria. I asked her how long she planned to stay in Scotland. She hadn't decided. I said I'd seen Mandela's release and found it very moving. She launched into a rant: the worst day of her life was watching that man leave prison. Her country was finished now that he was out. He would ruin South Africa. She went on a bit more. When she paused for breath, all I could think of to say was: "It's not your country and if you go home one day I hope you'll remember that."

I doubt if she heard me. If she went back to South Africa, I  hope she settled okay and has made a good life contributing to the new democracy. South Africa is far from perfect but it has started along what Mandela called 'the long road' and I wish them the very best in the sad days after his death.

Good health, everyone!

I found this on a friend's Facebook page:

I started off thinking okay, fair dos: if you have a medical condition that affects your life on a daily basis (I'm lucky - my gut problems only affect me part of the time), you don't want to be dwelling on what's wrong with you all the time. Take the optimistic view. Mustn't grumble. Always look on the bright side of life. It'll get worse before it gets better. Et cetera.

Then I thought haud oan a wee minute. If you're sick, you're sick. If you're chronically sick - like with lupus, MS, ME, cancer, bi-polar disorder, diabetes, cerebral palsy, fibromyalgia - does anybody really think you can get through the day without considering your condition? Can you just ignore the need for a wheelchair or a walker or for special arrangements so you can use the bus or the train - or the toilet? Can you forget about the need for special foods and just have a burger? Walk when you know you're not fit? Be 'normal' when you're not?

My own view of disability is different. If you're disabled, forget the hifalutin philosophy expressed in this poster. Don't disown your condition. It's part of you. There are many other people in the same position. Demand that it be recognised and accepted that the human race does not conform to somebody's vision of what's 'normal.' Expect to be given your place in society along with everyone else.

Don't settle for being excluded from certain hotels in Scotland because they don't have disabled access or for being pushed across the car park in the rain because there's no disabled access to the restaurant.

Don't let people put you off doing the job you want to do because your history of mental illness and the likely recurrence of your condition make it uncomfortable for other people.

Don't let people talk to you as if you're a child because you walk or talk funny.

And promise yourself, whatever your disability, you'll have a good life. You deserve it.

Independence (no politics involved, honest!)

I promise you this isn't a political rant!

I've been enjoying watching the reaction of the TV, twitter and press people to Scotland's 2014 independence referendum. I don't mean the people at the Scottish end of things but the big beasts from London. (Although I think the TV station in Scotland that's got a handle on the issues is STV and I never thought I'd say that in my lifetime.)

At first, it was good fun watching Jeremy Paxman on BBC2 and Krishnan Guru-Murthy on C4 News staring mystified at Alex Salmond. They had no idea what to make of the referendum at all. But now the Channel 5 and Sky people are also struggling to get their heads round what's going on in Scotland. The only thing that stops Politics Now having a laugh at Scotland's expense on BBC2 is that Andrew Neil looks as if he'll headbutt the first person that tries. As for BBC 1's Question Time from Falkirk last Thursday, what an embarrassment that was - that panel was picked by a London editor and it showed. And frankly, the Have I Got News people need a damn good shake after last Friday's show. Message to HIGNFY's director: a bit of respect if you don't mind - we pay the licence fee too.

The twittersphere has, sadly, fallen into the hands of trolls who seem to have little to do but insult Scotland all day long. Log in and search under @indyref for oft-repeated stories about how England is being bled dry by Scots living on benefits, drinking Buckie and eating deep-friend Mars bars; how the Spanish PM will 'block' Scottish entry into the EU - as if he could - and no mention that Rajoy said that as a message for his own revolting Catalans; and how the Welsh first minister says we can't keep the pound - well, he's Labour - he would say that. Whether you plan to vote yes or no in the referendum, how do you feel about being roundly insulted by the likes of Katie Hopkins, whose sole achievement seems to be she was sacked by SirAlan on the Apprentice. 

London-based newspapers and magazines are no better.The Guardian is even more anti-Scottish than the Telegraph - and that's saying a lot - with its jokey wee articles about Scotland lowering its corporation tax so much after independence that the whole of the north of England will implode. New Statesman has sort of tackled the independence issue: this week there's an editorial (no prizes for guessing which side NS comes down on) and the front page cover has a wee tiny drawing bottom right hand side that I think might be an actor from Braveheart.

But the referendum is happening outside London, init? And although we claim we live in a union, what happens in Scotland isn't likely to affect what happens in the south east.

But how about this? The ignorance of the media people is not limited to events in Scotland. In terms of news, we are very badly served by TV, radio and newspapers which never seem to tell us anything about what's happening in the UK outside the south-east of England. I exempt from that the BBC's news website, where you can at least get a bit of news from such far-flung places as Northern Ireland, although you have to remember a lot of the BBC's news comes from the police and court reports, so you might get a fairly biased view of what's going on. As for Europe, well, forget that. If it isn't a story about the EU banning curved cucumbers and encouraging the populations of Romania and Bulgaria to emigrate to the UK, the press, TV and radio won't give it a mention at all. The only place for European news that most of us in Scotland have found is Eorpa - in Gaelic, with subtitles.

But if it's news of the USA you want, you'll find plenty of that. Which is a pity, really, since the US is just a holiday resort for most of us. Our closest neighbours and trading partners are in Europe and the far east. Not that you could tell from the UK media.

And it's worth remembering that, whatever the result of the referendum, we'll all still be living on the same island and we'll all be trading as well as living together. And the world is bigger than London. It would be great if our media could remember that too.

Clutha and after

It's great to see people leaving flowers at the site of the Clutha tragedy, but if you want to give more than flowers, why not donate to the emergency bikers charity?

http://www.scotservs.org.uk/

Clutha

It's 05.30 and I'm still awake, a combination of insomnia and anxiety about what's happening 4 miles from my house at the Clutha, where a police helicopter has crashed on the roof of a packed pub.

In the 6 hours since the crash, it's become clear to me and sadly the families involved that the crew of three on the helicopter are probably dead. There may also be customers of the Clutha trapped in the partially collapsed building. I can only hope they get out alive. My MP Jim Murphy was one of the first at the Clutha after the crash and he has described eloquently and modestly what he found and what he did. Like the other people around, he ran towards the building - not away, as any sane person would do. The Fire Brigade spokesperson has described what they are doing to shore up the building and a spokesperson for Police Scotland has also described the situation the emergency services are dealing with.

So what's on twitter? Yes, there's recognition of what a difficult situation this is and of what has been done so far. But also there's - already - a bit of narking: Why haven't the police...? Why didn't the emergency services...? Someone should have...

So let's think of how most of us react in an emergency. I know how I am. Fkn useless. My elderly neighbour once rang my bell on a Sunday evening at teatime. She was blue round the lips and collapsed as I opened the door. The guy upstairs is a retired GP. Did I call for him? Did I take steps to make sure my neighbour's airway was clear. Not a bit of it. I rushed off to get the phone and dialled 999, leaving the neighbour lying on the steps. Got through to the ambulance people and listened while the operator tried to make me keep calm while we waited for the ambulance crew to arrive at our door. At one point, I tried to move the neighbour into a more comfortable position. By pure chance, that dislodged the bit of chicken that had got stuck in her throat. She later told me this happened a lot. Who knew?

That experience taught me one thing: emergency services people are a breed apart. The paramedics arrived at our house within 10 minutes expecting to find a heart attack victim and were kindness itself when they worked out this 80 year old had just choked on her dinner. They checked her out thoroughly and reassured me at the same time. Then they went off on another call.

I couldn't do their job. I like adventure in life but just imagine what it's like to set off in your ambulance not knowing what's waiting when you're called out. It is absolutely not acceptable for the public who have never done their job and have no idea what it consists of to bitch about how the emergency services do it.

Sadly, the case of the woman who was trapped in a mineshaft in Galston - the only case in recent years likely to become a scandal - risks overshadowing the work of emergency services. And, of course, the vast majority of emergency services personnel had no say in how that particular case was conducted. They just turn up day after day and do their job conscientiously and with sympathy for those of us who need their help.

Black Friday? I don't think so!

Okay, enough with the Black Friday stuff. Thanksgiving is an American holiday and I hope everyone there is having a good time, although it's doubtful if the turkeys are too happy.

But I'm not buying this consumerist nonsense about hitting the shops in the UK today in search of bargains.

Here this Friday is nothing more than 27 days before Christmas. We're in the middle of a recession and with astronomical levels of unemployment, especially among young people, it's irresponsible to encourage people to go out and spend. Plenty of people are going to struggle to give their kids a decent Christmas without this jamboree being added to the calendar.

This all started in the UK with an ad campaign by Asda. Asda is owned by Walmart, one of the worst employers in the USA. Walmart is famous for low pay ($6.83 an hour for most employees), inadequate health care, anti-union policies (sometimes using illegal tactics), sexual discrimination and high staff turnover - 70% of its employees leave in the first year. Walmart routinely moves into small towns, drives all the opposition out of business and then closes its stores because they don't make a big enough profit, leaving the community worse off.

Today is one of the days Walmart pressurises its employees to work, keeping the stores open out of sheer greed. So boycott Black Friday. And while we're about it, can we please boycott the Easter Bunny and Trick or Treat at Hallowe'en?

Moving - an update

I'm amazed at the number of you who read my recent post about selling my flat. Good grief, people! It's all fascinating to me but are you really that nosey?

Anyhow. The sale fell through. It turned out the nice couple who jumped to the head of the queue of buyers...Well, not to put too fine a point on it: they lied. They had assured me and the estate agent that they not only didn't have a mortgage, but had enough loose cash lying around to be able to buy my place without worrying about selling their place. Of course they got found out. When their offer came in in writing, a wee sneaky clause had been added: buying my place depended on them selling their own property. They were challenged. And continued to bluff. What was I making such a fuss about? Their house was near enough sold. No, they couldn't be sure their buyers weren't in a chain, although they could nearly guarantee I would be moved by Easter.

And, to my amazement, they weren't the only liars around. Two other potential buyers also lied - yes, dammit, just outright lied - about their ability to pay up. Neither had sold their own house as they'd told me, although one of them had had an informal offer and the other one had thought about it.

So I put the flat back on the market. And this time I seem to have an offer that stands up. It meant me borrowing a ramp so that the wifie could get her wheelchair in - which I did. And opening the flat up to the scrutiny of a patronising daughter. 'Well done, Dad', she told her father, 'Good choice.' I did wonder out loud what would happen if the daughter didn't like the place. From the looks Dad and I exchanged, probably nothing.

So here I am again looking for somewhere to live. There's nothing much for sale now - we're a month closer to Christmas than when I first advertised, thanks to the liars - so it'll be a rental. I've seen two and am already quite depressed. Two more to see this week coming. If they won't do, it's my sister's garage...

I just said no!

One of my neighbours collects round the doors for Christian Aid. In the past, I usually put a few quid in the envelope. He's a decent guy and I didn't want to offend him. Then he added Oxfam last year. I gave to that too, which was a bit daft, as I'll explain. Now he's added Marie Curie Cancer Care. And today I said no.

Thirty years ago, I was very ill. When I started to get better I decided to make a covenant with a charity and give to people worse off than I was. I picked Oxfam. I have given Oxfam £30 a month for 30 years. With tax relief, that's over £12,000. I wrote to Oxfam a few times when I was still working telling them now was the time to get me to increase my covenant because I was earning good money. They never got back to me. A lost opportunity on their part, eh?

In addition, I give to all the big emergency appeals. This month I donated to the Philippines appeal organised by the DEC. I've known quite a few Philippinos living and working all over the world and lovely people they are. And I know their country is poor and they need all the help they can get to recover from the recent typhoon.

From what I've read, my giving is not unusual: the Scots contribute massively to charity. Think of all the charities that have done so well here: Mary's Meals and SCIAF spring to mind, as well as the big charities like Childline and NSSPCC.

But now I reckon we've reached charity overload. Whole Foods allows a small group of charities to operate inside their store up the road. The first time I saw this, the folk were from the Guide Dogs for the Blind. My grandfather was blind and at the end of his life got good support from that group, so I offered a donation. But no, these people wanted me to commit to a monthly donation. In fact, they couldn't take cash.

Folks, we're in a recession, whatever the government may tell us about things getting better. I suspect the Mayor of Liverpool was right last week when he said on TV the recession was well and truly over in some part of the south-east - if it had ever existed there - but the rest of the country is still waiting to see the green shoots of recovery.

So those of us living in the real world have to prioritise our donations to charity. I've come up with new rules now:

Nothing for animal charities. They get plenty of donations via people's wills as it is. And if there was some way to cut the funding to the RSPB, I would do it.

Nothing to adventurers like Greenpeace, after their latest ridiculous Arctic escapade.

Nothing to veterans. I prefer to bombard my elected representatives with emails and letters asking for the creation of a Veterans' Administration because the war-wounded shouldn't have to rely on charity.

So in a nutshell my priorities go to: children here at home and people caught up in disasters in poor countries overseas.

2nd rant this week

I got back from the supermarket about half four today. It was nearly dark. I'd had lunch with my pal, we'd had a few laughs and even the madness that is Sainsbury's Darnley hadn't managed to dent my good mood. When I pulled up at my back door, I realised there was a car parked there. It was a soft-top and the top was down. The driver seemed to be youngish and was wearing a hoodie over a baseball cap. Beats me: why have the top down and then admit you're frozen and put on not one but two hats?

His car radio was blasting out something - you know, the doof-doof-doofa-doof-doof-noise you quite often hear from the cars of total eejits at the traffic lights. If there were words to this music, I couldn't have made them out over the base. I started taking the groceries in. The driver carried on nodding like the dog in the insurance advert on the telly in time to the music. I took in two loads of groceries and went to put the car in the lock-up 50 yards away.

As I returned to the back door, there was a pause in the music and then it started up again - if anything even louder. That's when I cracked. I went over to the car.

- Turn it off! I said.
- Whit? said the young man. Maybe wearing two hats was making him deaf.
- Turn. the. music. off!
- How? (You can tell he's a Glaswegian, can't you?)
- Because I want to talk to you.

He turned the music off and looked at me, frowning.

- What are you doing here? I asked.
- Whit?
I said it again.
- Um waitin fur sumdy, he said.
- Do you know this is a private car park? I asked.
- Whit?
- No lights, no road markings, said I. Private car park.

 And then he said it. The word that drives teachers - probably all adults - insane:

- So?

I've never been so tempted to land somebody with my big, heavy handbag. There was nobody around. It was nearly dark. I would have got away with it. I actually took a step towards him and he realised he'd gone too far because he flinched.

At that moment one of my neighbours appeared.

- Hi, she said brightly, This is my grandson. We're going to a family do and he offered to pick me up.

- Lovely, said I.

What a coward I am. I could have said: Tell your grandson to grow up. Tell him we don't all share his taste in 'music'. Tell him to put the top up on the car before you freeze to death. But no, I said nowt. Just smiled and said:

- Have a good night.

My Govan granny would be horrified. I can just hear her. She was normally a quiet woman who used a cluck of the tongue the way other women used a thousand words. She wouldn't have said: Have a good night. She would probably have started with: Get you tae f... oot o here. But then I doubt if she'd ever seen a convertible driven by an 18 year old wearing two hats, far less a convertible that was picking up his 85 year old granny.

Autres temps, autres moeurs.

And now for something completely...lame

How do you feel about Monty Python being revived as a theatre show? Here's my opinion:

Three guys in their 70s hamming it up onstage to make money, one to pay off his mortgage, another to pay his divorce settlement. As far as I can see, they're not planning new material, just using the old stuff. Haud me, as we say in Glasgow, back. Between this and the World Cup, July 2014 is going to be a doozy.

Being charitable (I know, it's not like me, but it's late) I admit there are plenty of folk who say they love Monty Python. Myself, I think they're either having the rest of us or themselves on - big time. The ministry of funny walks wasn't funny first time around. How will it be funny now that John Cleese has had a replacement hip and knee?

I can give you a list of comedians I think were funny from the same era as Monty Python: Billy Connelly, Dave Allen, Morecambe and Wise, Ronnie Barker, Tommy Cooper, Chic Murray, Dick van Dyke (yes, him!). They had wit, timing and great scripts. Not a dead parrot to be seen.

As the years have rolled on, I've got quite attached to American comics, like Seinfeld and Garrison Keillor. US TV series of the 90s were such a relief from the Hyacinth Bucket stuff. I particularly liked Spin City, Golden Girls, Mad About You and Third Rock from the Sun. Back in Scotland, Mrs Brown was and is still brilliant. I suspect nothing will ever be as funny as the original Chewing the Fat - but I'm prepared to let the team have a go at writing new scripts. As for Black Books, Bill Bailey and Dylan Moran on the same show - heaven!

These days I'm hooked on the Big Bang Theory and most things written by Armando Ianucci, like the Thick Of It. I see Michael J Fox has a show on US TV now and I hope it comes here soon.

I don't want remakes or revivals of anything from the past. There must be funny writers out there just waiting to be called on. Remakes are awful. I've seen superb and very funny European movies remade in Hollywood so badly they turn into disaster movies: La Cage aux Folles for a start. And to my absolute horror I see some bonehead is planning a sequel to It's a Wonderful Life. I won't be watching it and I hope every one of you will boycott it.

My motto for the day: keep watching Comedy Central.

Hello! (Be warned - major rant)

The woman in front of me and the guy on my left at the traffic lights a few minutes ago were both holding mobile phones to their ears and chatting away, not bothered that the police station is about 50 metres from the lights and there were two police officers waiting at the lights to cross towards it. Why did I not leap out of my car, point dramatically and shout to the cops: 'Here, look over here - they are both breaking the law!' Well, frankly, it's because I'm a coward. People don't take it well if you try and grass them up. In fact, I've decided there are people who believe human behaviour is not what's right or what's fair but whatever they can get away with - and they'll use violence to defend their right to do what they like if they have to. I do sometimes give children 'the look' (the teacher look, that is) and that tends to work up to about the early teens. After that, I worry about getting knifed.

Mobile phones are the bane of everyone's life in the UK and the US. I'm convinced people are more enslaved by phones in these two countries than anywhere else in the world. I once tried in a cafe counting how many people in the room were on their phone, even if they were with someone. I lost count when I got distracted by the fact that couples sitting together would often both be on their phones ignoring each other completely.

In supermarkets, I hear people standing at the ready meals counter asking someone on the phone: 'Do you want pasta or chili for your tea?' - and reading out the ingredients on the packaging. I really want to dig them in the ribs and say: 'Stop wasting time phoning about a microwave meal that will be high in fat and sugar and go home and cook something healthy from scratch, ya daft git! Oh, and buy a few vegetables on your way home, lard-ass.'

Between the ring tones and the idiotic phone chat, trains and buses are just about unbearable. One bit of advice might help: if you have to make or take a phonecall in public, LOWER YOUR VOICE! None of us care what's going on in your life. We're trying to read or just gaze out of the window and  ignore the smell of unwashed bodies. And frankly, from what I can make out, your life is pretty boring. If all you can do is phone, you've definitely got attention deficit disorder - either that or you're too stupid to learn to read.

And I'm sick of parents who say they bought little Torquil (aged 7) a mobile because they want him to be safe. How is he unsafe? He's either in school or at home or being ferried about by mummy and daddy. You think he needs a phone at school? Ask a teacher if phones are a valuable learning aid or just another bloody distraction from the work at hand. 

So where's my phone? Yes, I have one - not an android, just a wee old Samsung. I thought of updating to a Tesco android but got so much conflicting advice on Facebook I decided not to bother. The phone is next to me. It was in my bag till about 30 seconds ago but at least today it's switched on.

And I'll tell you this: the next one of my friends who says 'Sorry, I must take this' when their phone rings as they're having coffee or lunch with me - your phone is going in your coffee.

Oh and that brings me to my other major rant of the day: I was sitting in the car at traffic lights. Left hand lane is for turning left only. Right hand lane is for straight on or turning right. There's no right filter so motorists wanting to turn right usually go up to the next lights (200 metres away) where there is a right filter that lets through, oh, about 3 cars. (Well, this is Glasgow where the council hates motorists despite them providing an annual income of £8.5 million for parking in the Shawlands area alone.) A cyclist - female, young, nae helmet naturally! - overtakes all the cars in the right hand lane to sit at the head of the queue - and sticks her hand out to turn right. She nearly gets mown down by an oncoming car because she's over the white line and she curses the driver roundly. She can't understand why the drivers behind her are outraged at her bad manners. She's got as much right to be on the road as they have - as she tells them, with extra expletives.

Where's my phaser when I need it?

I'll be back...

The people I most admire on Facebook are the wits. The friends who can think on their feet and come up with a witty reply to someone else's post. That's not me. I was once accused of inventing a nickname for a colleague, a total incompetent who did my head in just as much as he did everybody else's. It wasn't true. I fumed about the guy but I'm not witty. It's not something you learn - you've either got it or you've not.

The best people to invent nicknames are kids in secondary school. When I started teaching (1973 - sorry - that's two generations ago to some of you), I had a colleague called Whispering. It had to be explained to me that this man was (1) very soft-spoken, (2) thought to tell the headteacher everything that happened in the school over tea in his office and (3) regarded as a grass by staff and kids alike. Put the clues together and you come up with an Ink Spots song that appeared in a Laurel and Hardy film. I'll put the name at the end of this just in case you're as dense as I was.*

Islay High School was a mass of nicknames: Cheyenne was a very tall, very gentle head of science. Snipe was a female Maths teacher whose head movements were quite like those of the wading bird. My own nickname was The Terminator. Not because I was horrible - I hope - but because after listening to kids speaking French in the classroom I would give them something else to do and say: 'Get on with it - I'll be back!' Well, I didn't get it either: I didn't go to the movies very often or watch TV very much.

I should add that some nicknames from Islay High I can't put up here for fear of being sued.

Tonight, I put up a post on Facebook about the chairman of the ethical Coop bank and Methodist minster who was (allegedly) caught buying cocaine.

My comment: You couldn't make it up!

I was then told that he had bought ketamine and crystal meth.

Quick as a whip, in came Peter from Bruichladdich: So is he a crystal Methodist?

See, I don't have that wit. But I'm helluva glad my Facebook friends have. That gave me the best laugh of the day.

 And I look forward to all my ex-students reminding about the nicknames from Islay High!


*Whispering Grass http://uk.yhs4.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?hspart=Babylon&hsimp=yhs-004&type=br110dm25af121845&p=whispering%20grass

What's up, Doc?

If you're a doctor in England - I mean a medical doctor, a GP - here's the good news: you've got a great salary. (And don't forget that's all due to the last Labour government which really just wrote the BMA a blank cheque to keep the doctors onside.) Reports have it the average salary for a GP is now £103,000.

But the bad news is, the present Conservative-Lib Dem government isn't convinced they are getting what they're entitled to from you in terms of workload and hours in return for all that lovely dosh. Never mind the exams you've sat, the training you've had, the hours you've worked in hospitals, the fact that you are now working in and maybe even running a surgery with lots of other doctors and ancillary staff, juggling childcare to meet the demands of your shifts there, not to mention the house calls and the paperwork you take home in the evenings and at weekends because that's the only time you can do it. Jeremy Hunt has been on the telly, all twinkly-eyed and smiling, and laying down the rules for healthcare.

Welcome to the 24/7 society. Your patients work the longest hours in the EU and are employed in non-unionised workplaces, where the company makes it clear it doesn't like them to be sick or to take time off for a doctor's appointment. If your patients are away from the workplace, their wages are cut or they get so much hassle from the boss they're more or less forced to work when they're not fit. In the end, some of them just neglect their health, which sometimes means the NHS has to pick up the debris at a later stage when their ill-health costs more to fix - if it can be fixed.

But nothing, nothing, can stand in the way of capitalism. We are all working to serve the needs of upper management and the shareholder.

So you doctors need to get with the programme (have you guessed yet which part of the world these attitudes have been imported from?) and start working evenings and weekends. You need to be at the service of the patient. We're not prepared to pay for a proper out of hours medical service and A&E is groaning under the burden of ingrowing toenails and bad backs, so it's over to the surgeries to take on the extra burden. And don't bother mentioning that the population is growing , especially the older population who need more care than the rest.There's no money. It's all to be done within existing resources.

And after we've made the surgeries into havens of 24/7 care, we'll move on to the hospitals: we'll have operations going on round the clock, get the consultants working non-stop, have even more unsocial shift-working for nursing staff.

The trouble is, of course, that the bean-counters - and I include Jeremy Hunt in their number - haven't got a clue how surgeries and hospitals work. I've been in hospital a few times. I dozed off on my bed one night in Neuro at the Southern General and woke at 11pm to find the consultant standing there reading my chart. Another consultant appeared at my house after I'd been discharged because he wanted to keep an eye on how I was doing. I also know of nursing staff who are due to start work in day surgery units at 7am who turn up at 6.15 because they know that's the only way to do all the prep work that patients need before their ops.

Making the NHS into a 24/7 service will not stop NHS staff doing their job but it will stop them taking the extra step for patients. It's insidious: you feel you've been badly treated so why should you give more than the service is prepared to pay for?

It happened with teachers in the 1990s: suddenly when teachers' working hours were dictated to the minute by employers, they stopped giving their own time - unpaid - to extra duties so  no schools' football, no after-school clubs, no school trips. The education service was poorer for it. Some things, like after school homework clubs, started up again later but the teachers had to be paid to do them - with funding diverted from other areas, of course.

Sadly, I've no solution to this problem, except maybe a change of government. And maybe I should emphasise that this is happening in England - or is it England and Wales or England, Wales and Northern Ireland. Not in Scotland. We have our own set of problems but I hope we don't go down this road.

Can you tell what it is yet?

Sorry - on reflection, a joke using a Rolf Harris catchphrase is maybe not a good idea these days...

Now that I'm moving house I'm looking at things more closely - much as we should have done with Rolf Harris, I suspect.

Today I spotted this under my desk in the snug:

It was plugged in to a multi-block but not attached to anything. What is it? Maybe the adapter for a now dead mobile phone?

Intrigued, I went looking further and found these in a drawer:

I know what the remote is for - the VCR I kept because I was sure I would use it one day...but the yellow cable? 

And these?

I have no idea how I came by any of them. And I don't know if I will need them when I move. 

When I think of all the ingenuity that went into designing this stuff, it seems a shame to throw it away - because that is what I'm going to do. 

Private or public - it's all about education

Another mild stooshie in the newspapers this past week about private education. I've lost track of the statistics, but it seems a lot of people in the Cabinet went to private schools (public schools, as they are called in England, though I'm not sure why) and then went on to 'elite' universities. So did large numbers of senior civil servants, lawyers, doctors, MPs, even journalists. This means that a lot of very bright people from comprehensives are never given the chance to shine, since the products of elite schools and universities tend to favour people from the same background as themselves (PLU, Margaret Thatcher used to call them: people like us) and so the inequality and lack of opportunity go on from one generation to the next.

If you think this is not true, let me refer you to the problem of getting women into higher level jobs. Same problem, same inability by the men to come up with a solution for creating equality of opportunity - and yes, the men do control the solution.

I could shake my head sadly and say: that's a shame but it happens mainly in English circles. We don't have that problem in Scotland. If hardly anyone in England goes to a private school (7%? 6%?), even fewer do in Scotland. About 3% of young people, maybe. I was talking to someone yesterday whose grandchildren are at private schools in Glasgow. The grand daughter aged 9 lives in Thorntonhall and goes to school at Craigholme. The travel is doable. The grandson aged 7 lives in Kilmacolm and attends Dairsie House (an offshoot of Hutchie). This is such a ridiculous journey the boy has to stay with his granny 2 nights a week so he can go to the swimming and the cubs. Listening to the reasoning of the granny, I came to the conclusion the parents know exactly why his travelling is acceptable and what they are buying. They're not bothered if the kid is academic. They want the name of the private school on the application forms for university and for jobs. And they want the kid to have contacts.

Well, it's always been like that, I hear you say.

And thank goodness for the state system of education in Scotland, I also hear you say, except that we're kidding ourselves if we think state education today is the great leveller our parents hoped it would be. In areas of Scotland, houses for sale are advertised as being 'in the catchment area of' followed by the name of a secondary school that appears every year in the top 10 of the highest-achieving schools (in terms of exam results) in the land. People pay silly money to buy a house in these catchment areas. If they can't afford a house, they have been known to lie about their real address or send the wean to live with a granny in P7 to be sure of getting him or her into the desired secondary. There have been court cases over this. And I'm not just talking about leafy East Renfrewshire and East Dunbarton here. Most cities and even some towns have the same divisions: Inverness, Dundee, Aberdeen, Stirling, Hamilton, Perth - and more.

The argument seems to be if you can get your child into a school with a good reputation, expectations will be higher and your kid will be pushed. So does that mean your kid in a school that isn't one with a high reputation will suffer? Well, in one way: there may be a lack of 'like minds' in your child's school if some families have moved away to be in the catchment area of a 'good' school. On the other hand, I've rarely met a teacher who didn't rise to the challenge of pushing a child to learn more and your child will benefit from that, whatever school they are in.

Sometimes I  think the only truly comprehensive secondary schools in Scotland are furth of the cities and the Central Belt: schools in the Western Isles, Highland region, Argyll, Dumfries & Galloway and the Borders have schools where most kids go to the local school. I exclude places like Moray and Aberdeenshire - god knows what goes on there.

I'm reminded of a friend's son who decided he wanted to go to Cambridge - no, his parents didn't know why either. He got in after a lot of fuss because he was very, very clever and despite the fact the college didn't really recognise his qualifications. At the first dinner in college, he was introduced to the head man (provost? chaneil is agam) who asked him what school he was from. 'Shawlands Academy', said the young man proudly. The heid bummer looked puzzled: 'Don't know that school,' he said. 'Is that part of Glasgow Academy?'

Au revoir, Poirot

Now that the Poirot series with David Suchet is coming to an end, never again to be seen on the telly (except in endless repeats on ITV2, 3 and 4, not to mention Alibi and Dave) I can finally say it: this is rubbish and it always has been. 

Agatha Christie was a good writer. Her books with Hercule Poirot are short and fast-paced and the stories are always told tongue-in-cheek - not to be taken seriously. The name Hercule Poirot - Hercules Leek - gives it away, as does the fact that he is Belgian. Not to mention his wee tash and his prissy manner.

So okay, I liked the books. It was the TV series I hated. Suchet is a great actor but he's all wrong as Poirot. Too big, too fat. Poirot should look like a leek. Clenching a 2p coin between his buttocks as Suchet says he did makes no difference. As soon as he opens his mouth he's just wrong. Not to mention that every episode goes on too long. Two hours and five minutes, ffs. It could all be over in an hour and five minutes with a decent bit of editing.

But it's the language I really can't take. Christie's Poirot, even though he's a Belgian, would never say "Viens" to someone he didn't know from Adam. Nor would he say: "Pourrais-je?" meaning May I? And the constant use of "S'il vous plaît" when he means Je vous en prie is really annoying. And so on. This is the writers' fault, not the actors'. At least this week the women playing Scots and Russian characters got proper voice coaching and came up with a few genuine idioms, but that only made Poirot's accent and language even more annoying.

What is it about the Brits that we not only canny be arsed to learn to speak other people's languages but can't be bothered asking a foreign language speaker or going to Google Translate to get other people's languages right onscreen? What's up with newspapers that can quote in French, German and Spanish but never get the accents right? Don't they use Word? Or does their version not have a Symbol menu to help them put the acute on café or the ü in München or the ñ in niño? We can at least make the effort to communicate correctly. I was never a fan of Tony Blair but I was impressed when he gave speeches in French - and I don't care if somebody else wrote them for him.

You'll notice I haven't mentioned the therapeutic effect that learning a second language has on the elderly brain, not preventing dementia but at least putting off the onset. With my current ability to read, understand and write English, Scots, French, Gaelic, German, Spanish, Italian, Catalan and Occitan - and a bit of Latin, though it's hard to find dead Romans to talk to these days - I should be safe for a few years or at least till the next time I find myself in the kitchen wondering: What did I come in here for?

Ian Davidson

What a little shit this man is.

And I write that as a long-time Labour voter.

Davidson represents Glasgow South West for Labour in the Westminster Parliament, though not very well: his performance can best be described as 'below average.' He really disappeared without trace since he left Scotland 21 years ago, despite being chair of the Scottish Affairs Select Committee.

As convener of Strathclyde education committee in the late 80s, he was known as a bully who made a habit of slagging off his 'officers' in public knowing they couldn't reply. I'd be hard put to suggest a single good deed he did in that position. He boasts about how well that committee tackled deprivation so it's odd that Glasgow still has some of the most deprived communities in Europe. The west of Scotland was relieved when he went off to Westminster. And it was amazing to hear how quickly he got rid of what appeared to be a strong Glasgow accent (in fact, he's from the Borders) so he could fit in with the London set.

With the independence referendum now on our agenda, Davidson has plenty to say. Not surprisingly, he's a Better Together man. He's the one who laughably accused BBC Scotland's Isabel (or is it Ishbel?) Fraser of being biased in favour of the SNP. Ask the SNP about that one.

His latest suggestion is that the contract awarded to the Glasgow shipyard to build Type 26 frigates should be taken away if Scotland decides to vote for independence:

http://www.eveningtimes.co.uk/news/glasgow-mp-suggests-break-clause-in-warship-contract-141533n.22602982

I can only hope the people of Glasgow remember this when they come to vote in the next general election.

Moving

Well, I'm on the move again. Barring accidents and all being well, I've sold my grand flat (referred to by the estate agent as 'an apartment') on the southside of Glasgow and will be looking for something a wee bit less roomy in the new year.

In case you're feeling nosey: http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-43808207.html/svr/1702;jsessionid=508063CF5854DA130F1E9388351561A2

I've been here for 17 years, the longest I've lived anywhere in my 65 years. How do I feel about leaving this place? To be honest, relieved. So glad I'll no longer be standing outside my front door tearing up ten pound notes and casting them to the four winds, which is how owning a house has always felt to me. Glad to be no longer supporting a firm of factors - both the surveyor and estate agent who did the transaction here told me in their next life they plan to come back as factors. Footloose for the first time in, o, 30 years - a nice feeling!

I got on the housing ladder in Islay about 1982. I put a lot of money into my Bowmore semi: installing a new bathroom, adding on a porch, replacing the windows, fitting wardrobes, updating the heating system. It feels as if I've gone on doing that ever since in Shawlands and then Mansewood in Glasgow and in Sandbank in Dunoon.

I'm not sure why I bought a house to begin with. There is no reason for someone in my position to buy a place and spend years pouring money into it: I've no children to leave a house to. Not that I think children have any right to expect their parents to leave them a brass farthing, never mind a house. I suppose it was Thatcherism: the 'property-owning democracy' as the Tories of the time called it. It was contagious.

My family is pretty well set up now so I don't have to worry about leaving them anything. In fact, most of the family live in posher houses than mine. My great-nephew, then aged 5, asked me last Christmas if I only had the one bathroom. He was amazed. In his house, they have 3.

So what now? Will I rent or will I buy? Will I take a winter let in Islay or rent my pal's flat in the Pyrenees, look for a place in Dunoon (which I love - gawd knows why: it's not a lovable place!) or settle for living in a modern flat here in Glasgow and blowing my money on trips abroad?

It's lovely to have the choice.

Russell Brand

Are you a fan? I'm not. I think Russell Brand is a jumped-up, foul-mouthed twat who's used his status as a former drug addict to make himself famous.

I was mad when I found out he was to be 'guest editor' of the New Statesman. It was bad enough the time the magazine was edited by Jemima Khan, multi-millionaire socialite. I deliberately didn't read the 'essay' Brand contributed and I ignored the bits put in by his rich and famous pals. Then he did a TV interview with Jeremy Paxman - somebody else I can't stand - and I heard so much chat about it I decided to watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGxFJ5nL9gg

No, I've not turned into a fan of Brand since I watched this but I do understand what he's saying, especially if you look at the UK through the eyes of young people - say folk under the age of 25.

A few figures for you:
- 21% of young people are unemployed.
- the young make up 40% of the total unemployed.
- there are 1,09,000 NEETS in the UK - young people not in employment, education or training.
- 25,000 young people have been on jobseeker's allowance for over a year. There were hardly any ten years ago.
- a young person in his 20s is much worse off financially than his granny in her 80s: jobseeker's allowance is £2,927 a year; the state retirement pension is £5,727.80. Yes, the retired person has paid national insurance but young people pay that too when they're working - and so do their parents.
- young people under 25 get less money in housing benefit, although 45% of those claiming housing benefit have children living with them.
- the age at which 'young' people can afford to buy their own house is now 37.
- only 2.9 million people in the UK now have private pensions - the lowest figure since 1953.
- the student loan companies are going to be privatised so we can expect the interest rates for young people paying their loans back will go up.

It does look as if the young are seen as a 'cash cow' by government: the argument seems to be they're going to be working for a long, long time so we can treat them less well than older people - and then, when they're working, screw every penny we can out of them. Plus, of course, young people don't usually vote. Well, a lot of them are in rented accommodation and don't live anywhere long enough to get on the voters' roll. And they seem pretty clueless about politics so they just ignore what politicians are doing to them.

This I think is where I would disagree with Russell Brand: young people have to be encouraged to vote and be active in politics. It doesn't matter what party. It doesn't matter that you hate the 'establishment' - those at the top of the political and financial tree who are busy looking after their own interests. What matters is that you get your voice heard. But then I suppose the same applies to all of us, whatever our age: if you want the politicians to walk all over you, just carry on not voting. The vote is the best weapon we have. Maybe the only weapon we have.

Gaelic, Scots and other things that annoy the Scotsman

I don't read the Scotsman newspaper very much, not even online. In fact, I probably read the Daily Mail more than the Scotsman. That's a bit of a surprise to me. It's a joke of a paper, the Mail. I love the way it calls itself your Scottish Daily Mail although it has just about nothing in it about Scotland and in fact is pretty anti-Scottish. But at least I can explain to a visiting Martian that this is a foreign newspaper so you can't expect a lot. The Scotsman, however, is written and printed in Edinburgh. How do I explain to my Martian friend that the reason I'm reading bits of it recently is because friends keep sending me anti-Scottish - specifically anti-Scots and anti-Gaelic - articles that are now appearing all too often in the Scotsman.

Like this one:
http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/heritage/hugh-reilly-a-tilt-at-the-windmill-of-gaelic-1-3161984

I've no idea who Hugh Reilly is. I'm told he used to be a teacher. I'm glad that he has joined the Scotsman as a columnist since that has maybe stopped him poisoning a few children's minds against all things Gaelic and Scots.

Reilly claims that Gaelic owes its revival to the SNP. Nothing could be further from the truth: the Gaelic revival started 25 years ago, long before government was a gleam in Alex Salmond's eye. In fact, Gaelic was never really promoted by the SNP till fairly recently. And this is just the first of many examples of Reilly's ignorance of his own country. Queen street station has indeed got signage in Gaelic but that was put up ages ago by a Labour Council - nothing to do with the SNP. He claims 'Glasgow's institute for teuchter education' is in the west end. Not strictly true. It's in Woodside but its population is drawn from all over Glasgow and furth of Glasgow. He regards the increase in the number of Gaelic medium schools as a mystery, but that's to be expected since he knows nothing about the subject. He also repeats the lie that BBC Alba gets 25 nillion quid a year from the taxpayer.

But let's be fair. After all, Reilly is: he's as agin the Scots language as he is anti-Gaelic. He's offensive about a headteacher who has devoted her career in part to the survival of Scots. According to him, only old people speak Scots. That'll come as a surprise to my Ayrshire friends whose offspring are lucky enough to be bilingual in Scots and English. And there's even a few that are trilingual in Scots, English and Gaelic. He describes the Scots of Robert Burns as 'spookily sound(ing) like the final, gurgling words of Robert Maxwell.' He's certainly never heard of the Doric - or any of the other dialects of Scots.

How do you get to hate your own nation and its cultures that much? Is it because the Scotsman newspaper has paid you to do it? Because you're anti-independence and will use any weapon against the yes voters? Or is it, as I suspect, just sheer-bloodyminded ignorance.

What really gets my goat is that the Scotsman has a regular column in Gaelic and has had for years and years. I know a few people who buy it for that reason. There's obviously some kind of split personality at work in the Scotsman offices.

But what I'd most like to know is when articles like this stop being just 'provocative' and become outright racist. If you read Reilly's article and substitute Urdu or Chinese for Gaelic or Scots, does the Scotsman's xenophobia start to be a bit sinister? It does to me.

This is Scoats - or is it?

Ah goat asked the night by somdy a don't know how I don't learn Scoats.

In fact, he asked me this in Russian (I said ah'd learned Russian). Ah'm no sure whit wing o the Scoats mafia he belangs tae. Thur's the folk that speak Doric or Ayrshire. Thur's the wans that ur 'learnin Scoats' witivir that might be. They fling words lik 'leid' and 'ailblins' intae the mix on paper - but ur they usin them in daily life, eh? Thur's the academics that cin quote the linguistic jargon bit ony in English. Thur's the wans that want linguistic purity an cin tell the rest o us whit's up wi oor langwidge but no whit right langwidge is, because thur's nae sich thing. Maybe there's an erse wing in Scoats. The guy ah'm talkin aboot definitely belangs there.

This happened oan the Scots Language page oan Facebook. Don't ask me how they canny huv the name o the page in Scoats - it's therr page, therr choice. Anyhow, here's the news: ah speak Scoats. This, folks, is ma Scoats. Ah grew up speakin lik this. Ah still speak it tae ma close faimly - jist ma generation - the weans huv maistly loast their Scoats - and tae ma pals. It's a miracle how ah still speak Scoats. It wizny written doon. Whit ah'm writin is in an orthography ah've made up masel. It was despised when ah wiz a wean. Teachers an the poasher bits o ma faimly made me understaun early oan that folk that wanted tae get oan in life didny talk like this.

Thur's somy us huv a split personality whur Scoats is concerned. At school, ah remember we hud a teacher - lookin back, she must've been a student oan teachin practice. She tried tae teach us Scoats.

'Who knows the word lum?' she asked us. Well, we aw did. It wiz a word we used in the hoose. But we'd been tellt words fae the hoose wurny fur school - lik 'aye' an 'naw' an 'gonny'. So we said nuthin. 'Come along now,' (or sumthin lik that) she said, 'You must know some Scots.' Well, we did. As well as the Scoats we spoke in the hoose, thur wiz the annual Burns competition. Ah lived in Govan an we aw hud tae learn poems - different wans ivry year - and recite them in class and then in the school hall in front o the rest o the weans, and then the best wur picked tae recite again in the toon hall. Ask me aboot the wee cooerin timorous beastie - it's lik pressin a button - ah'm aff lik a train. Ah cid dae ye The Braw Wooer as well even noo. Same wi Holy Wullie's Prayer. Sure, naebdy tellt us this wiz Ayrshire Scoats an if they hud it widda meant nothin. This wiz jist a way o expressin yersel that wiz oors.

Ah remember huvin tae read Scoats ballads in secondary school but ah remember mair comin acroass Tam Leonard's poems when ah wiz at university. Whit an eye-opener. He wrote the way ah spoke, even though he seems tae be despised on the Scots Language page. Then thur wiz the Satire o the Three Estates that we staged in the Drama department at Glasgow University. Scoats hud a history - who knew? An thur wur plenty other writers: Edwin Muir, Edwin Morgan, Willie MacIlvanney. Glad tae see his books makin a comeback, by the way.

Thur's plenty tae celebrate here. An the last census shows thur's 1.7million Scoats speakers in the country. So whit dae we dae? Build on the good news? Nut at all. We argue aboot whit Scoats is and whether your Scoats is purer than mine, forgettin the auld adage: use it or lose it.

Scoats willny survive this century withoot help, so get it intae the education system by hook or by crook, promote it in everyday life, get it some respect - whitivir it looks and soons lik an wherivir it's spoken, Scoats is a treasure. If oor generation disny dae it, the langwidge is deid.

Dear Scott Rennie

I see you're a member of the Unite trades union. I was a member of a different union - the EIS - for 28 years before I changed to a UK wide union. I disliked our union leaders because they were never prepared to take on the politicians but I stuck with them because they were all we had. Now things have changed so much that you and I as trades unionists are pretty much relics of a bygone age. It's impossible for most people to join a trades union at all these days.

However, despite the fact they are mostly pretty powerless, the trades unions can and do get the blame for just about everything that goes wrong in UK industry (what's left of it) these days. In the case of the fiasco at Grangemouth, the anti-union talk in the press and on TV, radio and the internet has already started. I heard a BBC Scotland reporter tonight say the Unite union refused to 'lift its threat of industrial action' at Grangemouth. That's not exactly what happened. Unite members didn't provoke the confrontation with Ineos. They got an ultimatum from management and voted 2 to 1 to reject their employers' demands to change their working practices and give up their final salary pension. That's their right as employees. They didn't at any time threaten the company with industrial action in the future.

By the way, nothing I've read or heard suggests a change in work practices or an end to final salary pensions would help Ineos recoup the £50 million it claims it lost in the last financial year at Grangemouth.

Bottom line: Ineos is not interested in petroleum refining. The owner (note that's what Jim Ratcliffe is) has said he wants to import US economic and industrial processes into the UK. He means dumping old-fashioned industry like refining and taking up fracking instead. His business is based in Switzerland. Nothing wrong with that. Plenty of businesses are based overseas, but it's interesting that Ineos bought a 'failing' business, arguably made it worse and moved its HQ overseas to avoid paying VAT in the UK. You can read about all it here:

http://www.opendemocracy.net/ourkingdom/robin-mcalpine/whats-really-happening-at-grangemouth-and-what-it-tells-us#.Umf_BzHLUZ4.twitter

Ian Bell's column today in the Herald is also informative: http://www.heraldscotland.com/comment/columnists/could-public-ownership-be-worse-than-refinery-farce.22488035

He suggests we take the refinery back into public ownership. This is the only refinery in Scotland and it supplies Scotland, northern England and northern Ireland. There's even a wee hint here that what Ineos was trying to do was blackmail Unite and the governments of Scotland and the UK to give them a subsidy. Fat chance, guys: bigger employers than Ineos have gone to the wall in Scotland and the government in Westminster - the one with control of the cash - hasn't turned a hair.

If I can give you a bit of advice, Scott - and I'm so old now I do that at every opportunity - maybe you should stick with Unite, encourage other people to join a union and be a bit more cynical about the triumph of capitalism. It's worth remembering capitalism has no moral dimension - just a love of money.

Who is Maria?

When a friend of mine was pregnant, she told her husband she had a notion to call the baby Kiri. He was very calm about this: Okay , he said, if this wee Glesga wean is born with Maori DNA, we'll call her Kiri. Otherwise...

The chances of that happening were remote, but I suspect the case of Maria, the wee blond girl adopted/abducted by Roma in Greece is much more complicated. Maria doesn't share DNA with the family she lived with. We're all so agitated in western Europe about the reopening of the investigation into Madeline McCann's disappearance, it's as if we want to believe that Maria is a 'trafficked' child. But the fact is she could easily be Roma in origin, since there are plenty of fair-haired and fair-skinned Roma in eastern Europe. You only had to watch Rageh Omar's series on the Ottoman Empire on BBC4 to see how the populations from central Asia to the Balkans and the shores of north Africa were mixed together for 600 years.

But what makes Maria's case really complicated is our reaction - those of us in the west and east of Europe who are not Roma - to how the Roma live. We don't like them - and I include myself in that description, having been attacked by a gang of teenage Roma girls in the street in Rome in broad daylight. I imagine the former colleague who got her bag snatched in a street in Barcelona by a Roma couple felt the same. And the other colleague pick-pocketed on the Paris Metro who pointed out who had done it to a cop but couldn't get him to take her seriously: Ça arrive, Madame, he said and went on to advise her to take better care of her belongings.

It's easy to work out where all this started. Much harder to work out what to do about it. The Roma were nomads whose lifestyle was totally different from that of the farmers around them. Centuries of social exclusion left the Roma outside our society and feeling they were battling to survive. They've had to suffer being shunted around Europe and central Asia and are still discriminated against in housing and jobs in eastern Europe. In World War 2, they were shoved into Nazi concentration camps and murdered as brutally as Jews, gays and the disabled. It's hard to believe that a whole race of people could be criminals born and bred but it is quite possible to look around and see other groups we used to look on in that way. It's not that long ago that landlords put signs outside their lodgings that read: No dogs, no Irish, no Coloureds.

The Roma respond to discrimination on our part by claiming always to be put upon, treated unjustly, made scapegoats of. and they'll go on doing that so long as we go on treating them as some kind of underclass.

So here's a thought: what if Maria was abandoned by her mother and this family took her in, fed and clothed her and used her as a street beggar in return. Is that not better than her being dumped in some hell-hole of an 'orphanage' - which is where she is now, I have to point out. Can any of us in the west do anything to help children like Maria? It's hard to know what we could do but if we don't try the racism - because that's what this kind of discrimination amounts to - will go on. If we need an incentive, maybe we should remember: people denied admission to our community have no reason to protect it and plenty of reason to undermine it.

Putting the customer first?

First it was Ryanair discovering that people hate their company after the public voted them 100th out of, yes, 100 rubbish companies. Michael O'Leary worked out - all by himself - that Ryanair's petty money-making puts people off travelling with them: 'O look, this bag is 5cms too wide to be hand luggage - that'll be 20 Euros, thank you!'

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-24177834

Then the gas and electricity companies started hiking their prices up. British Gas went onto Twitter to 'explain' the rise and their PR people were a wee bit surprised to find customers replying with:

<<Hi Bert, which items of furniture do you, in your humble opinion, think people should burn first this winter?>> and

<<Can I go back to paper bills, please, or can you send me something else that will burn?>> and 

Now it's Tesco finding out - again to their surprise - that their sales methods are wasteful. For some reason, they've latched on to the waste involved in the sale of salad. I promise them, that's the least of it. Let me quote from a blog entry I posted in February this year: 

<<...supermarkets are not geared up for dealing with single person households, despite the fact that millions of us now live alone. And I don't just mean the elderly. How about the newly divorced and separated and those between relationships or those just pissed off with relationships who decide to maintain their independence?

I always end up buying too much in the supermarket because portions only come 'family-sized' and I have to rely on my family to come and take stuff away. This month I passed on to my nephew and his wife a tray of chicken joints, a packet of crackers, tortilla chips, crisps and a jar of pour over sauce. These are called bogofs in the supermarket - buy one get one free - often stuff near its sell-by date. None of these are any use to me unless I can freeze them and most I can't.>>

No one can solve this problem of waste except the supermarkets themselves. And it's a bit rich Tesco blaming their suppliers. If Tesco decide they want food supplied in smaller quantities, they'll get it. Mind you, the way things go with businesses these days, the chances are there will be a charge and you and I will be paying it.

Let's hear it for the US of A

Back in the days when the Soviet Union and the USA were rival world powers, a friend of mine used to tell me the difference between the two powers was this:

In the Soviet Union, nobody knew till 40 years later that Stalin had decided in the 1940s the Red Army was riddled with traitors. This was despite the magnificent - you could say insane - sacrifice the army had made in World War 2 to save Родина - Rodina - the Motherland. He is said to have demanded purge after purge, sending out orders to various army battalions that he wanted the following officers treated as traitors: 1 colonel, 2 majors, 3 captains, 6 lieutenants. Nobody dared disobey, so heroes of World War 2 were lined up and shot.

The USA, on the other hand, believed in having everything out there in public where the country could see it: Nixon was guilty of a gross misuse of his powers as president and only escaped being impeached because he made a deal - the kind now made routinely by thieves and murderers - and his sacking was all done in public. President Kennedy's assassination was investigated over and over in public. Bill Clinton's sexual adventures nearly turned into a congressional enquiry. And so on.

Back then, I suppose it was a point of pride that the USA had no cover-ups (although we now know that was hogwash - you only have to look up the history of the FBI on Wikipedia to see that).

Can I be the only person not shocked but kind of embarrassed at the latest goings on in US politics? In the full glare of publicity, the Republican Tea Party tried to force Obama to give up his healthcare plans. Elderly men with bad dye jobs came forward day after day to harangue the public on the evils of Obamacare and Obama's refusal to back down, while the public - and not just federal employees - watched amazed. The final straw tonight came as a compromise was reached (I'm glad by the way that common sense and the need for health care for the 49 million people uninsured at the moment in the US prevailed) and a stenographer - let me repeat that: a member of the admin staff of the Congress - got to her feet and harangued the members over a microphone about the evils of Freemasonry. Truly the crazies have taken over.

I hope this is the end of the Tea Party and their nutty ideas, but I have an awful feeling the USA has bitten off more than it can chew this time with its public display of incompetence. I can just hear the Chinese: Hello, Mr Obama. We own most of your debt. We've come to help you to settle this problem...









Can I be the only person