Washing Servants.

07/21/2006

I have been trying to avoid the BBC news over the last few days as they launch into a frenzy over yet another Middle East crisis. Flack jacketed journos sweat in front of the cameras to explain how Iranian rockets have been given to maniacs, who in turn try to eliminate world Jewry for no apparent reason than to boost TV ratings and increase the profits of oil companies. It is all too much like Football World Cup “over” coverage as the maggots of the media try to turn a pound or two from pics of footballer’s wives or injured children, much like the Police, who now try to get a name check at every successful prosecution, of which there are far too few.

Our MP, Alan Reid, has once more, well let’s face it, before his three month summer holiday, been trying to persuade the English government that us rural Scots are suffering under a higher cost of living than our wealthy South East of England counterparts. Mr Reid made a well-balanced argument that was immediately poo pooed by some Trotskyite MP from Barnsley with cabinet office, who claimed that beer was more expensive in London than the Argyll glens. Mr Reid, ever the Boy Scout soon reposted that a pint in Colonsay cost £2.50, rather more than the subsidised £2 paid by said Trotskyite to slake his thirst and that of his chums in the parliamentary bars. Another young New Labour researcher hung out to dry, one suspects. Although no relief on our pound plus a litre of fuel.

It is hard not to have some pity for bullyboy Prescott as the sharks move closer to his sorry arse. It would appear that his undeclared gift of spurs, boots and a Stetson from some innocent American billionaire, possibly seeking influence on a Casino licence in London, is a step too far. Dead right old bean, although the overweight Deputy PM is not so much guilty of misuse of power as just being pig ignorant. I believe Deputy John will be back in charge during Tony Blair’s summer hols while the world burns around us. Not much of a vote catcher there, one should think.

Here in glorious Glen Trollaigh, we cool to a balmy 25 degrees, suffer three brief showers that hardly soak through the Vyella, but bring no help to our unhappy fishing guests, who have given up all hope of catching anything. They have taken to expensive seafood lunches in Oban to which Tanya’s Taxis must ferry them back and forth. One of them, Lt Col, The Rev A.G.R. Beggbie OBE. RE(Hons). (Ret)., as he signed himself in the visitors book, has been particularly offensive, despite dearest Dottie’s attempt to hold Highland Dancing diversions in the evenings. Lt Col The Rev seems to blame all Trollaighs past and present for his lack of fish, although I would have thought he of all people would have organised the wet weather required to improve the sport.

As we plan some improvements to the north side of the Great Tower of Trollaigh, we have uncovered one of those unfathomable questions, how often does one allow the servants to have a bath, or indeed force them to have a bath? More of this later. For all those who have kindly enquired, my graduation to “Doctor” has absolutely nothing to do with the recent endowment from The Trollaigh Charitable Trust to the Ladies’ College, though thanks to one and all for the catty comments. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.