Sunday, December 11, 2005
Kurds, Turds And Dear Ronnie.
12/11/2005
I sit in comfort after a hard day’s labour and spiritual enlightenment. It is the second Sunday of the month and as many of you will know Bridge of Orchy kirk is open for business at 11.30am prompt. I must confess that I have been less than enthusiastic in my attendance following the transfer to Spain of The Rev Sheddon, of whom I was a huge fan. However, today’s effort was pretty good and I approved of the theme that Jesus is the “Reason for the Season”, and that one must stand up bravely for one’s belief and not be a timid Christian, to say nothing of an excellent selection of gutsy hymns. Perhaps the service lacked the Rev Sheddon’s evangelical touch that I always enjoyed so much, but I left the kirk much refreshed. It is only a pity that the Hotel Bar next to the kirk is firmly closed at this time of year, so I was unable to slip in for my regular pre-prandial stiffener.
However, my day has also been brightened by the presence of my No10 mole, Ronnie Armstrong, who appeared out of the dark and rain last night, hot foot from the capital to warn me against the anti Kurdish sentiments that he had supposed I broadcast in my last scribble. I was, of course, able to reassure him that he had indeed misread my parting shot and that the Kurds are completely safe from my displeasure. Ronnie and I have spent an agreeable afternoon wall building in the rain and mud; on the one hand, Ronnie telling me that the Kurds are absolutely at the top of President Blair’s guest list. They are smoothing Turkey’s entry into the Euro Club, to say nothing of the small matter of helping to disable thousands of Sunni’s in support of George W, in addition to the trillions of cubes of natural gas bubbling below their ancestral lands. On the other hand Ronnie briefed me about fossil fuel levies, isn’t wonderful how a perfectly sound idea can be ballsed up by greed and incompetence. Apparently, energy brokers now buy and sell the certificates that industry require to comply with the levies, some things called LECs and ROCs, at a considerable margin. It seems as a rersult that electricity is twice the price it should be and that around a billion is being handed to Beastly Brown each year. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this revenue were used to improve our energy efficiency, however I would hazard a guess that the dosh is being used to beef up the rear suspension on Prescott’s Jags, or to fund a day or two of warfare. My only doubt about dear Ronnie is that I sense that he may be carrying a flame for the number one daughter, and although a most admirable chap, he is neither titled nor monied. Even a decent job would be a start. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
TURDS And The Kingdom Of God
12/10/2005
Our period of cold, clear weather ends in a mild, windy, dreich night. This morning the burns are high and our poor Dry Stane Dyker is wading in a muddy goo surrounded by piles of stone delivered by dump trucks from elsewhere in the glen, which have cut parts of the garden into a three dimensional model of the battle of the Somme. Dearest Dottie is surprisingly philosophical about this devastation because firstly, she is secretly delighted to see at least a few of her landscaping plans started, and secondly a mud spattered Lachie has assured her that “the ground always heals”. When I look at the chaotic seas of destruction, I am not entirely sure which generation of Trollaighs will enjoy the benefits! One person who is decidedly unhappy about all the construction work is Mhairi who is forever washing down the kitchen flagstones as several pairs of muddy wellies constantly crisscross the surface and the boot room is hung with dripping foul weather gear, all this added to the continual demands for hot drinks, soup and sustenance. Of course, the seasonal pressure of preparing for the family Christmas bash is also on Mhairi’s mind, you know; puddings, cakes, and things. However, I have warned the girls to keep the numbers down this year, but they always seem to find an inexhaustible supply of frail distant relatives who need fed, watered and sheltered for days, without doing a hands turn at the domestic chores. I have decreed that I must be shown a guest list, and I will be employing a couple of bouncers from Markie Dan’s to expel those “not on the list”.
For some years, the Trollaighs have reluctantly sponsored the Lornvale Junior Football Teams, and a few players have climbed to a satisfactory level of stardom. I am always amazed on the odd occasion that I catch sight of such paragons being interviewed on TV, how these bright, strong lads from Appin, Balvicar or Benderloch seem to have suffered fast track tutoring in the repetitive grunts, groans and unintelligible phrases of Helen Street, Gorgie or Easter Road, to say nothing of stubble, tattoos and body piercing. Imagine my surprise when I received a rather highhanded note from the club committee, advising me that they would be removing the diamond “T” logo from the strips instanter, as The Universal Religious Divinity Symposium, a mini multicultural quango have decreed that our company flag which continues to fly over every ocean, is a Christian Symbol and might offend Muslims. After a couple of Young Ardbegs to steady me, I have penned a calm reply that the club can sing for the £20,000 annual Trollaigh Shipping donation to their funds, unless the headscarves favoured by Scottish Muslim women are banned, as it offends me and several hundred thousand church going Scots. Spin on that Lornvale JFC, say NO to TURDS. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.