Sunday, October 15, 2006

Thrush or Fare

10/15/2006

Darkness falls early on this southerly gale blasted Saturday evening. The burns rage down the mountainsides and all the mutts lurk behind large objects, well hidden from anyone with any mad ideas of pitching them outside. However, this enforced period indoors has allowed me to catch up with some of the dreaded paperwork and I watch the outside temperature drop to five degrees at 5.00pm from the comfort of the library, Hendrick’s in hand. At this time of year I am mulling over Christmas lists, obviously, things are already on order for dearest Dottie and the girls, however I wonder if I would get more from the weather if I had one of those gadgets that show wind speed and direction, as well as temperature and barometric pressure. I well remember many a blustery night spent in the bar at The Isle of Colonsay Hotel where, above the optics sat a splendid wooden case with all this info displayed on dials rather than digitally, plus an early “navtex” giving weather and navigational warnings. There is probably enough junk around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh to produce all this info, in fact the replacement for our weathervane, accidentally carried away by a stray shot some years ago, is long overdue.

The River Trollaigh is now closed for salmon fishing, only just in time as the dry-suited “paddlers” have taken over the place. Nothing spooks a fish more than twenty yuppies hallooing through the pools, and although they wave and smile politely, one knows ones day is finished. It is always difficult to be polite and understanding when one trudges homewards for an early bath after spending time on the river back pitting ones wits against worthy prey. Surrounded by autumn colours, birdsong and the roar of rutting stags, all lost amongst the screams and shouts of canoeists, backed by the exhaust notes of their BMWs, Audis and Golf GTIs.

Old Colonel Bob Mainstay, kilted since birth, has been educating me on the difference between Mistle Thrushes and Fieldfares. I had always assumed that it was the latter that stripped the Hollies of their berries, their flocks squabbling amongst themselves and chasing other garden birds. However, I now learn that this is not the case and these noisy vandals are Mistle Thrush, with Fieldfares to follow shortly. While Colonel Bob and I were strolling in the garden discussing this problem of ID, he told me that he has had a problem renewing his firearms licence. We laughed together at fact that the authorities insist on applications for renewal being accompanied by the support of two referees and that these pillars of the community must be Members of Parliament, Doctors or Bank Officers based on their impeccable integrity. Of course, in this day and age such wallahs are the very last persons to ask, as there is not an ounce of probity amongst them. Bob’s problem arose when he went to see his MP, whose mother has cleaned for the Mainstays for years, imagine Bob’s surprise when he was asked to remove his kilt in the MP’s presence because he was displaying “cultural difference”. There followed a heated discussion on age and gender discrimination, to say nothing of Bob’s war torn buttocks only being a sight for those of a strong constitution. Naturally, Bob left without his referee’s countersignature. Bob had turned to me for moral and spiritual support before a visit to the Doctor for a reference and confirmation of identity. God only knows what will happen to the poor old cove at the surgery. Your aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Irritation

10/04/2006

My mood has been shaped by thinking of the large numbers of people in the public domain who are becoming increasingly irritating. These feelings were sparked by having to explain carefully to an elderly guest that hanging no longer takes place in this country. This followed the old codger’s response to the news that the Catholic Church had sheltered a registered child rapist, in denial of his strict Supervision Order, who went on to brutally murder a Polish student working at the same Catholic Chapel. Although it is easy to make fun of the reactionary OC, one’s mind does turn to those in need of a good kick up the jacksie.

1. Lord Tebbit, who was cheered to the rafters at the Tory party conference for announcing that future Tory tax cuts will be funded by the UK withdrawing from Europe. The noble Lord looked as though he was worried about getting back into his coffin before daybreak, although one would have thought that his greatest concern should be his fellow Tories hurling him off Bournemouth pier with a pair of concrete shoes.

2. Gary “phone-in” Robertson, solely responsible for the complete dumbing down of the once mighty Radio Scotland. For some reason Mr Robertson fills most of the morning programmes between 6 am and midday. During these gruelling hours, he encourages calls from insane pensioners either pontificating on subjects about which they are totally ignorant, or by hoodwinking the researchers and breaking into discussions about Taliban headgear, to complain that the Postman has stood on their wee dog whilst delivering new walking sticks from the NHS up twenty flights of stairs. In the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, the radio is now tuned to “English” Radio Four, apart from the evening show on Radio Two with that cheeky chappie, Chris Evans.

3. Alastair Darling MP, he of the bizarre eyebrows and as a minister in charge of something has introduced legislation abolishing age discrimination in the workplace. Most laudable I hear you cry, however it is soon apparent that it is simply a thinly veiled rouse to keep the elderly in employment for as long as possible so that their tax dollars may pay for the generous pensions of the likes of the said Alastair.

4. The lunatic who decided to dress all Bank of Scotland employees in football strips last Friday. I visited their Oban branch as a favour to a friend and was forced to wait half an hour to pay in a couple of cheques, served by a David Beckham look-alike. For goodness sake, stop sponsoring football and spend the dosh on employing more servitors.

Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.