John Gibson: Judge for yourselves, we were told

Published on 13/05/2011 11:12

Somebody had suggested, an ex-Army officer, I believe, we should have a reunion of Cavalcade judges. A throw-back to the days when Princes Street could take a grand annual Sunday parade.

We were Wendy Jones, who claims to be the originator of the event that graced, sometimes disgraced, the once-revered route . . . David Todd, latterly producer of the show that lost its glitter when shunted to Holyrood Park . . . Roddy Martine, who brought a measure of sophistication to the coterie of judges . . . the ex-Army officer, Brian Leishman, chairman of the judges . . . oh, and I almost forgot, your columnist.

We recalled over lunch in a Hangover Street pizzeria when the Cavalcade was deemed important enough to lure to our regular Royal Overseas Club venue an assortment of top military brass, chief constables and a Lord Provost or two.

Who to take the salute as the panoply of participants trundled past was ever a test of Wendy's diplomacy.

Final whistle

The last goodpie. I don't do funerals. But, of course I was there on Saturday for Eddie "Ned" Turnbull's wake. To join in the sustained applause from the Hibby loyalists at Easter Road.

And to gossip about Ned over the Press lounge pies. He knew we'd talk about him after he'd gone.

Work of art

Nah, I don't believe it! Surely it wasn't your scribe alone who noticed what bin Laden and Tracey Emin had in common. Why, the unmade bed, of course!

Amid the pandemonium pictured in Bin Laden's pad, his pit was snapped laden with the dirtiest linen imaginable. Comparatively, Tracey's, a nationally celebrated work of art it turned out, could have become part of the furniture in many an NHS ward. I hope.

I'm hearing encouraging reports on Tracey's current health, and she's saying: "My friends tell me that at the moment I'm, like, glowing. But I haven't had sex for ages." Not enough information.