Muir Of Ord On A Saturday Night

11/02/2006

I am not certain if it has been the sight of yet another Curry King sporting a Scottish tartan kaftan, this time Charan Singh in the modern Kerr tartan snapped at some charity do reported in Scotland’s answer to “Hello”, the “No 1”magazine. Or the subliminal admission of our political masters that inflation is actually running at the 8% increase published in their fat cat annual expenses. However, I do feel winter coming on. A wonderful clear full moon is on the way, frost nips the extremities of our young guisers and northerly breezes blast down Glen Trollaigh, tumbling the blasted wheelie bins beyond the reach of Argyll’s finest scaffies.

I have returned to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for hot bath and a change of smalls in my grand speaking tour of the WIs, so far I have bored the pants off the lovely ladies of Deeside and then Strathpeffer. The great delight in this otherwise irksome task is the opportunity to overnight with distant relatives whom I only visit once a year, mainly because many of them keep their heating thermostats firmly set at ten degrees C, and one’s only protection is a good pair of cashmere socks and a winter weight nightshirt. The visits are doubly painful, as most of them seem to be using something called Lidl as their wine merchants. I was upset to find one former trencherman nibbling on rice cakes and sipping Soya milk on the instructions of his medico in order to reduce the poor blighter’s cholesterol level. The old cove had completely missed the point that his GP gets a £10K bonus if he hits a government target to get his panel of patient’s health up to certain trigger measurements. So while my elderly chum spreads Olivio on bran crackers, his GP is off picking out the colour of his new BMW.

I have also learned that rural Scotland is certainly changing, during a visit to Muir of Ord. This innocent spot now boasts a murder or two, regular riots on a Friday night, fireworks fired at passing cars from the primary school playground, and even more interestingly; Ladies of the Night. Presumably, pole dancing can only be just round the corner. All this was reported to me by various aggrieved residents of Beauly, with one wonderful tale of an elderly elder of the kirk who stopped to offer a scantily clad girl, obviously having missed the last bus on a wet night, a lift into Inverness. The poor fellow completely failed to grasp the meaning of “I’m working”, and only after it was explained to him in the most graphic terms, was he able to proceed alone and red-faced to the highland capitol.

My more observant followers may have noticed that those saints at defreeze have tinkered with the format of my scribblings. Mainly this has been to placate those demanding the right of reply. I should add that all this has been achieved at considerable personal expense, and those of you who may wish to defray this are encouraged to do so in the usual manner. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.