Sunday, March 30, 2008

BST or not BST

03/30/2008

This weekend when time springs forward to British Summer Time the old arguments about daylight saving are delivered by the usual cranks with more crackpot theories than giggles from Charlotte Green following the “pee in a jar” incident. Personally I do not have much of a view on the subject as along with 90% of the population of the North Argyll Glens I do not change my clocks, preferring to stick to Greenwich Mean Time or Universal Time Constant as our Euromasters insist on calling it to avoid the blatant Englishness of the use of Greenwich. Let’s face it an hour either way makes no difference in these lonely parts where hostelries tend to be fairly flexible with their opening hours.

I suppose it all depends on one’s beliefs and the past weeks have certainly shown a lot of them to be built on severely shifting sands. I seem to have been stuck in small spaces with believers of every hue justifying their faith in the integrity of banks, the existence of God, Gordon Brown, and the resurrection, not forgetting the holy grail of the total terror and certainty of Global Warming. The later seems to be backed by the ridiculous number of beardy PhDs who publish learned articles based in the early arrival of blue night moths, so it must be true even when it is obviously blatant balls. Even a gentle tease will bring down the fury of melting ice caps on the baronial bonce from the doom laden believers. Frankly I am not prepared to have some chap from Bathgate sticking his gizmo up my motor’s delicate exhaust pipe to fine me £66, when Johnnie Chinaman is building ten coal fired power stations each and every week. It makes just as much sense as the board of HBOS filling their boots with shares the day after the price collapsed following despicable rumours about the bank’s solvency, or perhaps the huge boost in oil extraction now that super profits seem guaranteed on the reserves which will last us for centuries to come.

Recently various things have reminded me of the wonderful, though infrequent letters I used to await with unbridled anticipation from my father whilst I was away at school. Looking back it must have taken him quite an effort to compose these beautifully written mini diaries of his week/fortnight/month one assumes prompted by my mother. I must try proper writing again rather than this electronic thing, if only to broadcast the mystery of the skeleton in the tent at Bridge of Orchy, a story that father would have loved, where is the Audi that accepts the keys found in the tent? Communication also explains my long absence from these pages for those of you still interested. My laptop was seized at the beginning of March and chaos followed in all our systems as Big Brother considered my recent stay in Switzerland. Now that I seem to be in the clear dearest Dottie has invested heavily in a new room that looks a little like Houston Mission Control and I have been warned to stay well clear of this “off limits” area. However, the call of shopping has attracted all the girls away for the day and I have managed to hack into a document that I can publish, although switching the whole ramboodle on was enough of an effort. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Winter Blues

02/28/2008

A sturdy teak framed wicker lounger with those little wheels supports yours truly, I am wrapped from top to toe in a Loden cape, Borsollino on the baronial bonce and the mince pies are shielded by HRH Ray Bans. I lie in brilliant Alpine sunshine surveying glorious mountains with snow covered ridges and icy gullies from a stone flagged terrace, the bright bubbles of a light prosecco tinkle at my right hand. One would be forgiven for thinking that the jolly Baron is shirking on the sonnen platz of the St Morritz Zugspitzhoff, however imagine my delight that this scene is being played out on the “Laird’s” terrace at dear old Tower of Glen Trollaigh, yes, gentle reader I am home at last after what seems like eons exiled at “Camping Les Pins” east of Montreux. The oiks have been swept from Albany Street and all charges dropped although a stern warning has been issued that the “B” world must never cross these lips and that it is expected that I will be cheering to the rafters in support of any future re-wilding project, of which I feel sure there will be many.

The culture shock of returning from a country where one laughs at the very idea of the EU, balance the books, obey the law, keep the burka in a box and lights out at 10.30; to our rude, lawless land of chaos, corruption and confusion has been difficult to cope with. As I wait for the return of dearest Dottie and the girls from their break with Arthur Bennington on St Kitts, both my mood and the weather darken with each wireless broadcast. Chums telephone to give advance warning of the melt down due in March when the big hitters will re-finance, probably as far away from bankrupt Britain as possible. Taxes and gales rise, solid sheets of rain start to seek out the weak points of the elderly slates on The Tower of Glen Trollaigh. After my Swiss experience I am frankly amazed by the sheer incompetence of the current hopeless government, I assume that with the inevitable elevation of failed Blair to Euro President, the rear end of New Labour are now dispensable. Gone are low taxes, balance of payments, economic growth now is the time for debt, war and disaster. To-day’s offering from the airwaves concerns Doctor Nutty PhD (salary £175,000 plus pension) chair of some curious quango who has fined Network Rail a few zillion pounds. Break my bonce with a soggy cod but surely any numbskull can see that as a nationalised operation the fine will be funded by the taxpayers, reduced investment and the already abused rail user. Rather than letting nationalised services become even more disgracefully underfunded, Doc Nutty and all his pals should have their balls held in a vice until public transport problems are resolved, I’ll bet all of you a pound to a penny that the trains would run on time pdq. I also note that an overspend of a couple of billion pounds on G.P.’s salaries has increased consultation times for the punters, Along with most country dwellers and by mutual agreement I consult my quack in the Golf Club bar at midday where he does indeed take far too long and costs me a small fortune in gin, however thank God the Doc is also presumably hitting some splendid performance target (with extra income) in the process. There will be a welcome in the glens for dearest Dottie, just in time for her birthday, oh bugger forgot our anniversary again! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.