IWAS interested to read an article in this newspaper's business pages yesterday. Oh yes, I like to keep informed, you know. Was I checking on my stocks and shares? Citizens, I was not. Did I have fears over the liquidity of my portfolio? Doubts about the Dow Jones? Feeling bullish about my bonds? Nay, nay, and thrice nay.
Nay – I mean, no – there was an interesting article about the rise to prominence of Bruce Langham, a director of Hibs. You say: "Oh, you! I might have known it would be something about footer. You're such a lad, even if you do have a beard, read To
lkien and wear a woolly pullover."
Be that as it may, I was impressed with Bruce's career trajectory. Starting as a check-in assistant at Embra Airport, he became a high-flier with the British Caledonian airline, then got involved in cable television and, subsequently, worked for Mohammed al-Fayed as chief executive of Fulham Footer Club. But what really caught my eye was the fact that he'd lived in 20 houses in the past 30 years. What curious synchronisty! Late the previous evening, I'd taken a constitutional, having felt bagged up by the white pudding salad I'd had for my tea.
As I waddled fitfully among the big posh villas, a few streets away from our more modest abodes, I got to calculating how many hooses I'd lived in during the past ten years. It came to eight. Furthermore, all in all, in my adult puff, I reckoned I'd lived in 22.
It spoke volumes about my general lack of rootedness and, perhaps, of an inability to stick at anything. Three friends have written novels and want me to read them. But I can't. I start reading books, but rarely finish them. I've bookmarks in more than 300 tomes. It's the same with my own projects. Five novels started. Eight works of non-fiction. Few making it further than the first chapter. I just sort of wander off.
If it makes me sound a flibbertigibbet, then perhaps there's something in that. But I'm a flibbertigibbet in big clumpy boots. Already, I'm feeling restless in my new home. With me, it's a never-ending search for Nirvana Towers. Here, though, for the time being at least, my back-garden helps keep me rooted a little. I say back-garden. There's a front-garden, too, but it's very open, with a wee lawn and flowery borders. No, it's the back-garden that does it for me. It's secluded, with trees or tall shrubs on all sides. It's small, but I love it, particularly at this time of year, when I can sit out and hear the birdies twitter.
For I am not as other men. I prefer flowers to bling, and would rather stick my hands in the soil than in a motor car's engine. Here, in my back-garden, I can sit on my yellow canvas chair, sip some Guinness, and feel content. But how long will it last?
Bruce has got himself a mews flat in the New Toon. I hope it works out for him, and that he too will sit still for a minute. In many ways, our careers have taken entirely different trajectories, our lines on the graph crossing in the middle of a saltire shape. He's risen to success. I started off well and look where I've ended up. Still, we've both got our footer team, a constant in our lives, for better or worse, for richer or poorer.
Native aggression just a childish traitGOOD heavens, there's an isolated island in the Caribbean, where the semi-naked natives have distinctly Scottish traits.
According to newspaper reports yesterday, Treasure Beach is full of folk with red hair who speak with a Scots dialect. Many have blue or green eyes, red or fair hair, and sprinkle their conversation with expressions like "aye" and "pish".
They have Scottish-style names like McBlenkinsop, Bigott and Nutter.
It's thought they may be descendants of Scottish shipwreck survivors, who were on their way to get drunk and attack people in new lands. Even today, there are still reports of islanders running around, shouting in their quaint idiom: "Roo ull bra tanya ya bah sass!", waving Union flags, and attacking local dogs with their shins.
The local paper, the Beach Bugle and Examiner, says this is just a "tiny minority" and that it is not their fault.
Meanwhile, the Scottish Tory deputy leader, Murdo Fraser, visited the island yesterday and laid the blame for recent disturbances firmly at the door of the local police.
A spokesman for the community added that the Beachers did not wish to control their own affairs, as they were too childish, a trait caused by an inherited constitutional abnormality.
YOU all know my views on nose-blowing. It is a disgusting habit. Recently, on two occasions in restaurants, I witnessed citizens blowing their beaks into the napkins. No wonder waiters hate us. Yesterday, I read that table manners are improving, except among young people yabbering into portable telephones or checking Faceplook over a meal. Confronted with nose-blowing or gadget-fiddling, any parent or waiter should immediately poke the offender in the eye. I'm getting a message on my headphones to say that is illegal. Doesn't matter. Poke and be damned. It might seem a bit rude. But don't worry about that.
The full article contains 914 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
