Obama’s dreadful
error about the
‘Polish death camps’
Ian Hamilton
Soon I will be dead. But, oh, to be alive at this moment in Scotland
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for a Scottish legend
The Midgie
Devon County Council – boo hoo! – has dropped the exclamation mark from the only placename in Britain graced with such a distinction. Westward Ho! has been reduced to the lowly status of W’ward Ho in a new road sign. How dismally belittling.
Since, however, an exclamation mark – the only one in British geography – is goin’ a-beggin’, the Midgie has inaugurated one of its rare competitions.
The Midgie invites readers to suggest placenames in Scotland to which the only available exclamation mark might usefully be appended. In an effort to get us in the mood for this punctuation challenge, one of the Midgie’s many assistants has recommended the Ayrshire village of Maidens.
Maidens! The exclamation mark in this case would denote surprise that there are any left in this corner of south-west Scotland.
Or how about Tullibody!, to remind us of that classic hangover.
Or Bowling! To signify the state of play in the Test Match.
Nominations with reasons for your choice, please, to the Midgie’s representative on earth: islay@scottishreview.net
A Scottish Review pen, personally chosen by The Midgie, will go to the author of the winning exclamation mark! Entries must be received by email no later than 1pm on Wednesday!!!
Sports News
It was announced yesterday that Rangers Football Club might be going bust. Nuff said.
Today’s banner:
Iona wedding
Photograph by
Islay McLeod
An open letter
to The Donald
from Scattland
Kenneth Roy
Dear The Donald
Greetings frae Scattland lol. I’m writing on St Valentine’s Day to clear up a few misunderstandings that appear to have crept into that head of yours.
First of all, I’m more than a little surprised to hear of your tiff with the leader of our beautiful country. It seems no time at all – that’s probably because it is no time at all – since you guys (yous guys as we say in these parts) were inseparable. When The Eck won big time last May, you were putting it about that he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. (I take it you are familiar with the metaphysical properties of that staple of the Scottish diet.) Now, suddenly, he’s single-handedly destroying our beautiful country.
There’s a certain inconsistency here, The Donald, as well as a serious question-mark over your knowledge of the governing party’s policies. The Eck has never made any secret of his devotion to alternative sources of energy; it’s one of his little quirks. Yet still you allowed yourself to form a dangerous liaison with a strange man thousands of miles away not knowing of his fetish for wind turbines. How dumb was that? We all know the perils of internet dating, but really…a man of your age.
Second of all, how come, my friend, that the world only learned of your obsessional dislike of these horrid things when some nasty people threatened to build a whole line of them in the sea a mile and a half from your new golf course? Nae wonder The Eck is feeling a bit bruised by your rejection. He really was the last to know.
Third of all, how much do you really understand your fellow gowfers?
You claim their view will be spoiled by these erections. Watch my lips. There – is – no – view – to – spoil. This ain’t our wonderful Firth of Clyde. This ain’t the majestic West Coast of your forefathers. It’s just a big expanse of grey nothing called the North Sea, babe. Believe me, Eck’s turbines will actually improve the look of the place. It’s an aesthetic master-stroke. Just like that 9-iron you fired into the heart of the green at Augusta all those years ago.
But even – even – if there had been a view to spoil, golfers aren’t the kinda guys who would notice. Have you ever heard of Joyce Wethered? Or was she slightly before your time? The great Bobby Jones – you may not have heard of him either; he refused to play for dough – thought Joyce Wethered the most gifted player he had ever seen.
Anyways, she was six down in the final of the 1920 English Women’s Championship on a course called Sheringham in Norfolk. But then she fired a succession of birds and drew level on the penultimate hole. In the old country, we call the second last hole the penultimate. At Sheringham it runs alongside a railway line, and as Joyce stood over a putt for the match, a train rattled by, as trains do. She holed out. The title was hers. As she came off the green, she was asked if the train hadn’t put her off.
‘What train?’, she replied.
See what I mean? Golfers are crazy. They’re all wrapped up in their little game plans. I watch them at Troon and Turnberry. They haven’t a clue where they are. So don’t give me all this spoiling the view crap. I don’t buy it.
Fourth of all, you are now on a one-man mission to save our beautiful country from The Eck. You see us, the kinsmen of your late mother, God rest her Hebridean soul, ‘imprisoned’ around our coasts by these monstrosities. As your late mother, Mary McLeod, would have said: ‘Dinna fash yersel’. Except she would have said it in the Gaelic, ochone, ochone.
Listen to me, The Donald. We know what The Eck is up to. We know what he’s playing at. He’s trying to barricade us in with his wind turbines. Mark my word, the people will rise against The Eck, every last wind turbine will rise from the sea, nice new nuclear power stations will be put in their place, and the people will be free.
A word to the wise. I hear you have a new best friend here in Scattland, some guy called Struan Stevenson, who thinks it would be a ‘tragic loss’ if you didn’t build that fine hotel of yours. I once knew a young chap of that name down here in Ayrshire. A promising farmer lad he was; I often wondered what became of him. If the two are related in some way, perhaps even one and the same, let me let you: that kid is not in the same league as The Eck.
Young Stevenson is a member of a minor cult called the Conservative Party; I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. It’s sort of like the Mormons without the wacky underwear. Stevenson knows little of tragic loss if he thinks you going off on one of your strops and refusing to build a hotel is a tragedy. We have enough hotels, The Donald, enough to last us a lifetime. And we are a soulful people. Tragic loss goes deeper with us than the loss of a few hundred Corby trouser presses. Seeing as we never used them in the first place.
Well, it’s been fun talking to you, The Donald. I hope you will visit our beautiful country of Scattland some day and, if there’s anything I can do to effect a reconciliation with The Eck, don’t bother to let me know.
See you around – or, as they say over here, not if I see you first.
Sincerely
The Roy
Kenneth Roy is editor of the Scattish Review
