A radio station which no longer exists in this city once sent me round recording people’s reaction to the idea that a chairlift was to be attached to the side of the Scott Monument.
It was a spoof, meant to rile people up. It backfired spectacularly. Many of the good folk of Edinburgh were gently supportive of the idea. They said, well, if it means that disabled people can get to see the view, then why not, as long as it was done tastefully.
I was immensely impressed by the good sense of the people of Edinburgh, demonstrated again this week, when some twonk in London thought that it would be a good idea to slap Olympic rings on the side of Edinburgh Castle – which, let’s face, would have failed the tasteful test big time. So we politely told them to stuff it.
I’m assuming that Sir Seb Coe and the rest of the Olympic committee thought that we, the Scots, needed reminded about the upcoming sporting extravaganza. Have the peasants in the north failed to show due excitement and clamour so far? Memo to Seb. Get a grip. I pretty much figure that anyone in Edinburgh who is excited about the Games will have already bought their tickets for the 1000-metre hurdle or whatever it is that floats their boat. I think boat floating is also an event. I could be wrong, because I’m not really that bothered about the Olympics. Or the Commonwealth games, actually. Come to think of it, any organised sport tends to make me run for the hills, which I suppose technically is a good thing.
Anything that involves sporty people organising things makes me nervy. Sportspeople tend to fill me with slight unease, especially retired ones who get into high-powered positions behind politicians.
Trust me, if I were Prime Minister, and Seb Coe was hovering behind me looking like Cliff Richard Does Twilight, then I’d be worried.
Podgy middle-aged politicos are in thrall to them. Ex-distance runners and retired pole-vaulters get to pontificate on everything about our national health and the way we eat and dress and exercise. And they wag their fingers at us for being a bunch of sofa-surfers, like every single PE teacher you ever had at school who crushed any enjoyment you ever had out of exercise – or as you used to refer to it as a child, just running around.
Tell you what, Seb. We’ll stick rings on the castle when you tape the symbol on to Buckingham Palace.
Trump meets his match as Lyon takes up arms against him
Sporty people, by the way, are always moaning about our showing in sporty things, and yet we are premier first division, world-beating, international league table-topping champions, crushing all comers, when it comes to Heraldry.
Oh yes. When it comes to what to put on your shield as you go into battle, we, the Scots, are the people to beat.
While the continentals were swanning about selling off titles and making up coats of arms willy-nilly, we had, and have, a fearsome creature known as the Lord Lyon, who has minions aplenty out there to ensure that you aren’t going into joust with the wrong quarters on your shield. And woe betide you if you think you can get away with just pitching up with your coat of arms unregistered and get away with it, because he has lawyers to send ferocious letters to stop you.
Mr Donald Trump regularly rampages around the globe getting his own way. That is, until, the Brillo Haired one tried to raise his standard on Scottish soil with an unregistered coat of arms.
Of all the opposition that the frizzy-haired fright faces, surely he never imagined a battle with a bloke who sounds like a character from Harry Potter.
And, I am proud to say, Lord Lyon Of Scotland : 1, loud-mouthed Yank: Nil. Go, team Lyon!
Throaty tones might help you to call the hotshots
My son has brought home the first cold of the winter from school. I’ve got a head full of cotton wool and my eyes are an interesting shade of red. On the plus side, though, I do have a very deep, throaty voice, which is apparently very attractive. I know this because I was on the phone arranging for a bloke to come and do some DIY.
He positively bounded up to the door. Then I saw his face when he realised The Voice was mine. Hey ho. I suppose I could take up a job on those dodgy phone lines . . .
It’s just a fuellish idea
Oh, and one final thing about the Olympics. Some energy company is giving its customers the chance to win tickets for the games. Good oh. Better idea, give the tickets to your pensioner customers who can then flog them at vastly inflated prices to cover the cost of their fuel over the winter. Just a thought . . .