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.