Would you ******* stop swearing?!

I put this up on my Facebook page this week.
* See note!

I wasn't surprised by the reaction. A couple of older friends were shocked. Younger friends thought it was funny. Swearing divides us at the moment along generation lines.

I grew up in a household where my father swore all the time, not for emphasis or as an outlet for anger but just as a natural part of everyday conversation. My mother could also let rip but only when annoyed. He was a shipyard worker and she worked in a factory. In both places, swearing was part of working life. Both of them toned it down when there were older or very young people around.

And I suppose that's the difference between their day and now. It seems now everybody swears, all the time and everywhere. In addition, swearing in Glasgow is an equal opportunities activity.

On the Glasgow Subway, I heard two girls in their late teens talking. They weren't neds and they weren't shouting, just chatting and reporting a conversation:
- So I says: Who you ******* talkin tae, ya ****? An he says: Who you cawin a ****?
And so it went on. To begin with, the repetition was quite funny but in the end the same two swear words were repeated so often, it was just boring.

It's not always boring, of course. Sometimes swearing feels quite violent. A friend caught in a dispute with a guy in Dundee over a parking space thought so as he called her 'a stupid ****' over and over. Not shouting it. Just quietly menacing.

I try to ignore it. The only time I've rebelled was on the Oban train when two young guys (going home for the weekend maybe?) walked past lots of empty seats to sit right in front of me and started a chat about a lecturer they didn't like. The effing and ceeing was still going on at Ardlui and when I realised they were probably going all the way Oban, I intervened and asked if they would please go and sit somewhere else because their swearing was getting on my nerves. They were quite surprised. I don't think they knew they were swearing or that anyone else could hear them or might be annoyed.

I wouldn't want to pretend that I never swear. But it tends to be in reaction to something. Today in my car I was being followed by a large SUV so close to my back bumper that I ended saying: You, pal, are going to end up sitting on my ******* knee! He turned off then, I'm glad to say.

But is swearing going the same way as lying and stealing in this country, both of which now seem almost acceptable? In another generation from now, will we find swear words have lost all meaning. What will we do then when we get angry? Draw a gun?

* If you know me, you'll realised till I had the helicobacter treatment I endured 15 years of irritable bowel syndrome - that's why I like the cartoon!

There's journalism and journalism

I was going to write about these people:

This is Yasmin Alibhai-Brown. She's a journalist and broadcaster. I've heard her on the radio a few times. She has strong views and expresses them forcefully. I heard her on Channel 4 News last week, having a go at Rod Liddle, another journalist who has roundly insulted her in his new book. She claims he's a misogynist. 

The next day, I came across a news report that this man, Michael Fabricant, a Tory MP, had tweeted that he wouldn't be able to appear alongside Yasmin Alibhai-Brown without wanting to punch her in the throat. Way to go, Michael: threaten violence against a woman. You'll be amazed to learn this is not allowed, however 'annoying' you think she is. 

Channel 4 News obviously knew a good story when they saw one so they then got this man, James Delingpole, another journalist, to square up to Yasmin Alibhai-Brown. In the discussion he referred to her and the C4 journalist alongside her as 'girls' and said he wouldn't stop criticising Yasmin Alibhai-Brown just because 'missy' gets upset. 

Tonight on Sky News Review, Andrew Pierce, a journalist with the Mail, commented on Judy Murray. 

.

Not her achievements as a tennis coach but her hair. He's glad she's going on Strictly because they'll have hairdressers there. 

What do these men have in common? Apart from being misogynists, I mean. They are all journalists for London newspapers. All right wing. All living in that cosy wee world in which they are overpaid and taken far too seriously because the owners of their newspapers - not them - have a lot of political clout. 

Meanwhile, in Egypt, journalists have been working on the front line, sometimes putting their lives in danger to report what has been happening there for the past year. Their work has been outstanding. In fact, if you want to know what's happening in the middle east, their reports to Al Jazeera are the only ones we can rely on.

Three of them have now been sentenced to prison terms of between 7 and 10 years. Their employer, their governments (one of them is Canadian), Amnesty International  - everyone is condemning their treatment. They have 'earned' these sentences by doing their jobs. 

I'd love to send a few London journalists to Cairo to get an idea of what life is like for real journalists in the real world.

Down with balsamic vinegar!

I was treated to my lunch today. Alex is going on holiday so he suggested we go to Crookston Hotel for a bite to eat after volunteering at the library. I haven't been in the hotel since my brother's wedding reception over 30 years ago but it was okay. A bit run down but with friendly service and the usual sandwich/soup/panini/baked potato/pasta menu.

We ordered ham sandwiches on wholemeal bread. Alex said straight away: nothing else. He got a wee bowl of crisps instead of coleslaw and salad. I said no coleslaw, thinking there's not much anybody can do to a wee bit of salad, is there? Oh no? The salad arrived smothered in balsamic vinegar.

I hate balsamic vinegar.

Italian restaurants in Glasgow are still so fond of balsamic I find myself checking before I order. The chefs are not always pleased. For example, when I asked the waiter at Carluccio's to check if they used balsamic, the chef looked quite shocked. I could see him in the kitchen from my seat. But I still assured the waiter if there was a hint of balsamic on my very, very expensive dinner I would hunt him down and kill him.

For a start balsamic is black. Nothing that goes into a salad should be black except the odd Italian olive. It's also very strong and overpowers the veg. I make my salad dressing at home French style: olive oil, wine vinegar, mustard. My niece in law makes her dressing Chilean style: a squeeze or 5 of lemon - nothing else.

Which brings me to another matter: how come if I want a green salad - not iceberg, for ....sake - I have to buy either an expensive Caesar salad and dump the salad dressing, parmesan and croutons or a cos lettuce which I then have to wash? What is this obsession with lollo rosso, rocket and the rest? I still remember the reaction of a friend who is a gardener with a small but perfect country potager. 'You pay for this stuff?' she asked, looking at the bag of rocket. 'This is what we pull out from between the rows of real veg.'

Townies conned again. Or city folk so far removed from the soil we don't even know when we're being conned.

Another Govan Story

I wasn't going to write up any more of my observations on modern Govan, because I don't want to depict the folk of my home borough as pathetic losers. But I'm fed up with the constant chat about 'inequality' and especially about 'welfare scroungers,' so here's another one for you.

It's not the first time I've described the cafes in Govan as an extension of the social services. Today, Alex and I were having our usual mid-afternoon roll n square with coffee when we noticed a kefuffle at the door. The two women who work in the cafe had spotted one of their regulars keeling over in the street and had gone out to help. They just about carried him in and sat him down.

His name is George. He could be any age between 50 and 75. In Govan it's hard to tell what age some men are. George is wee and skinny as a rake and walks with a stick. He has that bent over walk of very old people but it could just be he's younger and worn out from years of manual work. According to the women in the cafe, he has his breakfast there near enough every day and he's quiet, doesn't complain about anything, and when he didn't turn up this morning they sent out messages that they were wondering where he was. One of them went to get him tea and a roll n scrambled egg, his favourite. He leaned over the cafe table and started to cry. There is nothing worse than seeing an old person cry like that. Big sad sobs came out of him.

Alex and I were about to leave so I went and paid  for our snack - it was my turn. I said to the woman who took my money that I hoped George was ok. She nodded. He's run out of money, she said. O god, said I. It's awright, she said. We'll see him ok.

Earlier on, Alex and I had popped into Harry's hardware shop on Paisley Road West in Ibrox. My sister wanted a new kitchen timer and I was looking for a bottle brush. Harry's is a wonderful shop. He stocks everything - and if he doesn't have what you want he'll get it for you for tomorrow. Harry and his staff are always polite to customers, especially the older ones and more especially the 'care in the community' ones. There are usually a couple of people stacking shelves in the shop, tidying up or pricing new stock. I don't know if Harry pays them or if they're just there passing the time. Besides them, there are always a couple of very elderly people sitting about in the warm, drinking mugs of tea and eating chocolate biscuits.

So maybe it's not just the cafes that are keeping the community going in Govan. Human kindness is a wonderful thing. But I wish George's pension was enough for him to live on.

Who's your daddy?

In Saturday's Herald magazine, there was a 4-page spread (it might have been more - I didn't linger) featuring a model who looked like the usual stick insect and seemed to have only two claims to fame. She went to Glenalmond College and her father is called Fish. So, a private education - that's a big tick in the jotter of life for a start. Having a daddy called Fish? Well, it seems he's a 'rock star'. Something to do with a group - from the 80s maybe? - called Marillion. He's certainly a big hero of reporters on Scottish newspapers and is mentioned regularly, though I confess I've never heard of him. His real name is Derek Dick. Much less fun than being called Fish. But another tick in his daughter's jotter all the same.

What's interesting about this model? Nothing at all, I would say, except that she has joined the ranks of the people doing well not because they are talented but because of who they are related to.

There's Stella McCartney for one. I've looked at her designs and doubt if even one of them will be remembered ten years from now. Then there's Sam West, son of Timothy West and Prunella Scales. He's done well, though whether he would have got the parts he's had if he'd been descended from unknown parents is a different matter. Chrissie Hynde's teenage daughter got her kit off a few years back for a Channel 4 film but has never been seen or heard of since.

There are exceptions, of course. Victoria Coren is the daughter of Alan Coren and she is a very bright woman who is just as quick-witted as her father was. Her brother Giles, though, I have my doubts about.

I can see how the children of entertainment people get drawn into that world. It's what they grow up with and may be all they know. But it must be absolutely maddening to slog away as an unknown, thinking you're doing well in the world of entertainment only to find yourself up against someone whose main attribute is their name. And it's probably pretty annoying too if you are talented and have famous parents and are judged suspect because of your name. There is a way round that, of course. You can do what Duncan Jones did. Born Zowie Bowie, he changed his name and has made himself a reputation as a film-maker without any backing from daddy Dave.

I am not OCD, honest!

Remember the line from the movie The Boys From Brazil, spoken by Laurence Olivier in one of his finest roles as a mad Nazi doctor: Is it safe? In this wee rented house, I'm adopting a different line: Is it clean? 

Before I moved in here, I nearly came to blows with the letting agent who assured me when I said the house was dirty that 'clean is relative.' I pointed out I probably know more about  what 'clean' means than he did since I've lived in 10 houses in my time, and was born and brought up in a room and kitchen in Govan where my family of 2 adults and 3 kids lived in cramped conditions but total cleanliness. Before I moved in, my brother and sister in law spent a couple of nights steaming the dirt off the kitchen and bathroom.

I keep thinking I've cleaned everything that needed to be cleaned here. The shower head. The shower screen. The cooker hood. The hob. The skirting boards. The curtain rails. Today I spent about an hour cleaning the bathroom - again - the muck in the plugholes of the basin and bath had to be seen to be believed. Still they are not up to my standard.

I hate cleaning. Given the choice between reading a book and cleaning, you can guess which one I'll go for. And I don't think I'm particularly obsessed with cleaning either. I'm not going looking for things to clean. Is it just that the previous occupant of this house was very old and maybe didn't see things that needed cleaned so the dirt has built up?

When I'm volunteering, I find myself - though not often, I'm glad to say - in houses where I would be reluctant to sit down. There's the man who appears to have spent his life in his house smoking. Nicotine seems to be running down the yellow walls of his livingroom. His furniture all looks to be covered in a patina of the stuff. I've only gone in once and left sharpish because I had an asthma attack. He is quite elderly and quite disabled and he has a carer. What does she do?

Then there's the paralysed woman whose entire world consists of her bed, her books and her TV. She not only has carers in four times a day but her daughter is her main carer (getting attendance allowance?). If the hall and her bedroom are anything to go by, the house is filthy. What do these 'carers' do?

I've read that our problem nowadays is we're 'too clean,' so that we have little resistance to germs. I don't see it myself. I've seen too many cases where I just knew the dirt was about to take over.

Visiting a friend in hospital recently, I noticed a (used) elastoplast in the corner near her bed. Four days later, it was still there. 'Do they not clean the wards?' I asked. Yes, every day, it seems. No wonder our hospitals are riddled with infections if these are the standards.

In San Francisco I watched a woman down at Pier 49 trying to use her foot to open the toilet door. I offered her some wipes and a biological spray, which she accepted happily. When she came out of the toilet, she said: 'If you're going in there, don't sit down.' 'My dear,' said I, 'I haven't sat down to pee in a public toilet for 60 years!'

Well, I would in Japan - but nowhere else.

Beep beep, I'm a tram!

And here they are: the (in)famous Embra trams. They seem to have had a good start this weekend with 40,000 tickets sold, although there will - of course - still be recriminations and protests at the waste of money, the disruption to local businesses and traffic, etc. I used to work for Sue Bruce (Chief Exec of Embra Cooncil) and if the tram project is back on track it is probably due to her. Not that I'm a fan: she's as cold a fish as you could meet in a long day's hike but she's efficient. It's just a pity the route of the trams has had to be curtailed. Edinburgh is one of the least user-friendly cities in Scotland and an extended tram system would be a real benefit. But maybe in the future, they can change that. 

I'm sure I don't need to remind you that this is the Scottish Parliament:

It too was denounced as over-priced, a waste of money, etc. It certainly cost more than it was meant to, but that was mainly because the politicians kept footering with it, adding a tower here, a wee reading corner there. Poor Enric Miralles, it probably shortened his life. Now, just 10 years on, it's routinely referred to as an 'iconic building' and we are dead proud of it. Inside, I still think it's one of the ugliest concrete monstrosities in the country, but there you go - we now love it.

So what is it with the Scots? As any new project is announced, we can already hear the Greek chorus intoning: 'Nae guid will come o this. We're aw doomed.' Sorry, that's less Greek chorus and more Dad's Army. But you get my drift. It can't be a lack of expertise or savvy. After all, we are famous as a nation of engineers and inventors. We can turn our hands to anything - and have done for centuries. We are resourceful and well-educated and acknowledged as such by all who meet us.

Is it the fault of the press? I feel I have to point out that there are 35 newspapers published in Scotland and all but one are owned by some company based outside the country. It can't be that our 'national' newspapers expect - nay, want - us to fail in any new endeavour, can it?

Or is this just what's usually called 'the Scottish cringe'? In other words: if it comes from here, it can't be any good. We'd be better getting some expert in from outwith our borders to show us how to do it properly. We can't handle this. We're too wee, too poor - well, you get the picture and if you're a fan of Better Together you've probably already stopped reading. And I'm sorry about that. Because whatever happens in the independence vote in September, there's a job to be done to persuade us that we, as the people who largely invented the industrial revolution, are capable of doing more, being better and aiming higher. Otherwise, what the hell are we trying to do?