Nicholas Beneath The Kilt

Fareweel and goodbye to you old Scottish Tories

As the wheel of life slowly revolves, around comes Buggins turn in the small wierd world that is the Scottish Conservative and Unionist Party, but not for long it appears. My successor in the Scottish Parliament, Murdo Fraser, for so long the bridesmaid to the ever unwedded Miss Goldie is about to don the wedding veil and elbowing aside the maiden lady take his proud place at the helm of the Titanic , but not for long it appears. For this blushing novitiate is about to pull the chain and flush the not so ancient party away to the seaside.

Master Fraser has decided that if the Tories elect him as leader,he will abolish the Party and form a new one , in an attempt to gather into one unholy tent the ranting, wild eyed, flashing toothed remnants of the right, he is prepared to fling out not just the baby with the bath water, but the soap, rubber ducks and the bath itself. In the way of all those that allah has blessed with madness, he appears to have neglected to think through any practicalities and like any shoddy do it yourselfer, has neglected to properly prepare before applying the anaglypta.

In the manner of a bus driver elected by the passengers to set fire to the charabanc, he has lost sight of the the fact that the vast majority of his colleagues in the Scottish Parliament owe their seats to them being placed on a list by those very members of the club that he proposes to bar the doors to. What legitimacy will there be to any sitting MSP who replaces a retiring member, as is the current system, when they belong to a party which no longer exists. And what of current members? Fraser's rivals, and fellow candidates, including those opposed to his plans are what? expected to turn on their heads and join a new grouping which they didn't want in the first place? Or do we expect all the Tory (as was) benches to resign en masse and be replaced by whom? Or in the case of constituency members will they provoke a by election? To march back in, triumphant under a new crimson and black banner ( most of the colours of the spectrum already claimed by other parties).

Whilst all this carping may seem a bit in the esoteric realms of navel gazing, and dismissed as mere detail, the whole proposition has been hailed by some commentators  who even the loathed former Tories found unpalatable. Certain hisuitely challenged pseudo journalists and dicredited historians no doubt relish the prospect of their re-entry into the ranks of the foam flecked. Suddenly a new asylum has appeared to give shelter to the mad, the bad and the  dangerous. Whether the majority of  basically decent but misguided eldery conservatives will wish to join a movement that welcomes back the traitors and denigrators of the previous party we will have to wait and see. I don't believe they will all roll over and let the 

I wonder if there is a place in the new dawn for me, the Scottish Conservatives refused my subscription when I left the Parliament, maybe because I was rude to the ruby lipped Raymond, the former chairman. Will I like all the other backsliders,and there are more than a few, be ushered back through the portals? But what sort of future will it promise, what vision can it proffer?

I still believe there is room for a right of centre view, what I am not sure of is whether I like the view, Perhaps I will wait and see what happens, no rush. There is a time for all of us, not sure whether that of Murdo has yet arrived though.

 

 

It was a question on twitter from @Skelptarse that led my mind to wander. She asked if people agreed with the sentence passed on Jim Devine for fiddling his Parliamentary expenses. As usual I dashed off an answer without thought, and then like wisps of mist on a summers morn threads began to unravel and I started to really consider whether the interest of anyone is served by banging someone up at public expense.

My first thought was to revive the stocks, a liberal dose of a conservative punishment would see Devine the recipient of addled eggs,putrid fruit and mouldy bread distributed free to firstly his constituents, secondly to his office manager, then to all the women he propositioned and finally the general public could take their turn. For fiddling £8000, perhaps 8 hours, then he would be released and for the rest of his 16 months he could be compelled to attend citizenship classes with the added modules of alchohol restraint and accountancy.

Once his debt has been paid off then he can return to useful life as a top level trade unionist, thus satisfying all the necessary criterea of retribution, humiliation, re-education, and redemption.

The principle could be extended to all non violent crime where prison will only serve to reinforce abhorrent behaviours. So self serving bankers could be set to emptying charity tins, flashers could be put on display in a refrigerated cabinet (to mitigate their offence), kiddy fiddlers could care for geriatric incontinent dole cheats, and drunken drivers should spend continuous 12 hour shifts as dodgem attendants with the cheeky girls blasting their ears at 130 decibels.

I am also reminded by @hollyjunesmith that the very nastiest transgressors and absolute enemies of decent folk are the dog poo spreaders. Their training will be on a large hamster wheel, filled with their own dog's mess, revolving at 60 rpm, and sprayed with a fine mist of water, each step would provide a large squelch and every so often a brake would operate, so that a stumble became a slip. They could gain redemption by wearing plastic bags on their hands and picking the detritus from between the bars, but would still have to trot for four hours before they could put on their shoes.

That'll larn 'em, they'll not do that again!

Fresh News from Damongo

Hi Friends,
now we have a Bishop ordained on 25th March 2011. I will attach his picture in a mail to you as soon as I can discipline myself to edit the pictures I made for the occasion.
When we met casually last Sunday, he immediately gave me the green light to embark on my Tree Planting Project seriously, whether I had the cash or not. He was himself going to hunt for the funding. So, this HOT bright morning I was doing landscaping with 3 Agric Extention Officers. We were able to cover 2.5 hectors land and this evening I engage 4 solid men to start stumping that land of all tree and shrubs. I have about 360 hectors to work on within 6 kms radius of Damongo. We, let us hope he gets the funds.
I am also to pursue my translations work with zeal and starting with the priests to be ordained into the Priesthood in August/Sept; none of them would be permitted to celebrate a public Mass until he has passed his examination on the use of the local language of the Parish to which he would be posted. The examiner? Justin! H-m-m, I had to get the Prayer of St Francis of Assisi translated into 8 local language for use at the Bishop's Thanksgiving Mass. Well, it is challenging but I know it is worth it.
Tomorrow, I leave for Wa to visit my aged sick mum and would return on Monday evening.
Sad to say, but my second nephew, about 20 years old was decived and led into a room then tied and locked up from morning till late afternoon when he succeeded in setting himself loose. Then broke the window and jumped out. Immediately, the friends pounced on him calling him a thief, trying to lynch him, but for the early intervention of passersby.
Then, Police investigations showed that it was a conspiracy to ritually kill him. Now that all is hot, the relations of the alleged criminals feel they should meet me for my intervention to stale the court action.
I do not want my family matters to interfere with my ministry. I don't want them here in Damongo. So, I just want to give them the opportunity to meet me in Wa, in my family and I would get them arrested and locked up for 48hrs for daring to approach me to mediate in such matters.
Hope you are doing fine and preparing for the summer holidays.
I wish you the best in the Lenten Season.
Stay blessed and keep the smile,
yours,
justin

Power corrupts?

Emerging from a background of shouted Arabic demands for various  despots to remove themselves, Scotland's minor political stramashes seem of little consequence this week, but the two phenomena are not unconnected.

We have Jim Devine who is about to be removed from our political ambit because of misuse of the power to falsify expense claims and who was  then declared bankrupt.

We have Wendy Alexander removing herself from Parliament because (in the eyes of some, not entirely, unbiased commentators) she was to be denied a position of power in a future Labour administration. Or at least the position she told everyone she was getting apparently. This analysis ignores the considerable power of motherhood.

We also have Bill Aitken probably regretting he has the power of speech as his mouth was stretched beyond its limit by his insertion of his size twelve foot in his forensic examination of the morals and mode of employment of a Glasgow rape victim. His resignation was drawn out and painful and showed clearly that Tory leaders actually have no power of discipline over  a member of the party who will be out of sight in eight weeks any way.

We also have the powerful in all political parties fastening on the supposed admittance by Colonel Ghaddafi, whose own grasp on power seems tenuos in the extreme, that he was indeed responsible for the Lockerbie bombing. The outsider may well be confused by the common cause shown by both current and former First Ministers in applauding the Scottish judicial system and averring that there was never any doubt in their minds that the conviction of Mr Megrahi was as sound as a bell. The Scottish Justice Minister was only exercising his considerable power of compassion to a dying man and that he had no power to exercise the transfer of the said prisoner under any shady transfer deal cooked up by the former powerhouse of the Labour Government, because that power was never on the table for this particular political prisoner. The said Justice Minister did have the power to get himself off to Barlinnie to discuss cancer care under the SNP administration and the escalating price of camels with Mr Megrahi. His subsequent explanation that he  just happened to be passing also had the power to produce hoots of derision. Readers wanting a more balanced view of the Lockerbie affair should read the powerful blog of Robert Black, http://lockerbiecase.blogspot.com.

Firth of Scotland, William Hague has the power of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office to lend power to his elbow. Like a modern day Palmerston he lost no time in issuing a powerful message to Libya by sending a gunboat. The subsequent suspicion that  it was a late bargain entry in David Camerons travelling arms fair was heightened by the news that this particular frigate was about to be pensioned off. Perhaps the Southern Sudan may buy it cheap. Meanwhile his Cabinet colleague (for now) Liam Fox announced that he needed four nuclear powered submarines to play with in his bath because with only three he felt naked and unprotected. Useful indeed they have proved in the current Middle Eastern hoo har.

All in all then what is the connection between the power of the people in the despot ridden Middle East and the maunderings of the British political class. I make no excuse for summoning Rabbie:

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us. To see oursels as ithers see us!" 

On the one hand a people struggling for power and here at home a people who cannot seem be trusted to resist the corruption that power bestows.

 

Photo from 23 Feb 2011

Have now had Kenwood Major for four weeks and am slowly getting to grips.

Major successes : White rolls, very light and tasty, do increase salt slightly as need bit more flavour bringing out. Brownies, delicious ,followed Jamie Oliver recipe sort of. Lentil, tomato and cabbage soup , very good result. Pizza bases good taste but bit sticky and didn't come cleanly away from pan. Wholemeal bread, fabulous. Next off wholemeal pasta.

Only downside is that it is a pain to wash all the bits and pieces. Also chopping veg is too efficient more puree than cut veg.

BELOVED LEADER Part 2

Baron Sandstone drew in a deep breath and addressed the four contenders “ You have been invited here today because you have emerged as the successful candidates following many hours of debate and deliberation and scrutiny by the members of our party at numerous meetings from Alness to Arrocher, Bettyhill to Berwick, Campbeltown to Coatbridge, err maybe not Coatbridge, but you gather my gist. Now, before the Grand Scottish  Councimittee, you have the opportunity to convince the assembled members why you should be chosen to be our new beloved leader. In secret ballot we have decided the following order :

 

Arabella Tweedie

Willy Trotter

Fergus Maser

Pashmina McMassood

 

“Two thorns surrounded by fragrant roses”  he chuckled

 

You have three minutes to explain why you should be leader and what policies you feel the new SPIFF (Speedy Policy Initiative Forging Forwards) should consider. Now Arabella, start us off please”

Arabella rose, majestic, fragrant, her hair cropped boyishly about her cheeks like a burnished pewter helmet and with a casual toss of her bosom skyward she began: 

It is not for nothing that I am known as the laziest woman in the Scottish Parliament, I learned many years ago in the law to make haste slowly, and to steal where possible the work of others. This has stood me in good stead in Parliament and in the Party, I have broken no branches, made no enemies, in fact my gushing winsome charm has on many occasions completely disarmed the First Minister, leaving him helpless and if on the rare occasion that doesn’t work a mere mention of my navy gym knickers has him speechless. I am assiduous in self deprecating on every occasion and when David Cameron (blessed be his holy name) mentions me as his favourite auntie, I do go all of a quiver. I have done many things for the sake of the Party, riding a bicycle in Holyrood Park, abseiling down the Scott Monument on one occasion, and yes I was wearing my navy gym knickers then too, though they are a little restrained on my girlish frame nowadays. I have kissed Michael Forsythe when he appeared as Santa at the Raploch Conservative Association  Christmas  Carol and LGBT Fayre. I dressed in a tartan bikini and joined in the Jolly Dookers Splash beneath the Forth Bridge last New Year, where I self deprecated myself wetly beneath my true blue goosebumps. All in all I have appeared as a jolly good egg, and am, though I say it myself, the epitome of the Conservative Party in Scotland, warm, approachable, kindly, caring, business friendly, user friendly, votable, lovable, cuddliable, and everything else that the adoring Daily Telegraph wishes to write about me.

I want to pass over the recent sad events that lead to us losing so many valued colleagues at the recent election. As my very able but limited deputy Fergus Maser, so wittily wrote “ Arabella in defeat is unrivaled, but in victory unsurpassed” I was touched by that wise tribute from a man whom I personally saved from the gutter, through the sheer warmness of my smile and force of personality allowing him to bask in the reflected glory of my shadow, As the great Scottish poet John Bunyan tells us:

He that is down need fear no fall 

He that is low no pride

He that is humble ever shall

Be happy at my side

but may I say, self mockingly of course, woe betide him that steps in front of me or cuts me off from the limelight.

Your baron-ness, you asked me to make reference to policy, well that will not take long, there is no need to trouble these good souls or indeed the public at large with complex analysis of boring detail. I follow Dreary O’Letchie in this adage, tell them nothing and don’t upset the Daily Record. Not having recognisable policies has been no handicap to me whatsoever or my colleagues in the Parliament, vote with the SNP and keep your heads down when the wheels come off, has served us well. And I am sure that with me at the helm our dwindled band of valued colleagues in the Parliament will make an enormous impact due to my twinkling eye and self effacing wit, and when it all goes to hell in a handcart or bogie as we knew them in the Gargunock School for Wayward Misses, where I had the honour to be Head Girl, Netball Captain and was often voted Miss Most Popular Pigtail, then I will leave you all to it, for my favourite nephew has promised me my own red bench in the Big Hoose, as Baroness Tweedie of the Whole of the Clyde valley (and a bit of Lanarkshire) and I will continue to twinkle in that distant firmament. Thank you all for placing your trust in me and I promise that I will continue to ably represent you and the Party.... “Oh sorry thats the next speech” ”

She gave one wolfish grin then glided over to sit  down as the assembled delegates began the pre-orchestrated five minute standing ovation, before gradually subsiding into somnolence again as they welcomed Willy Trotter to the lectern.

Flight Sergeant Trotter, RAFC, RAF ret, was a small man, sandy and nondescript. Much loved by the three remaining members of the constituency association in Stanley, Perthshire, he had earned his spurs in the Party by slavishly praising Margaret Thatcher, the poll tax, or community charge as only he and  Michael Heseltine still called it, and by denouncing each and every innovation that successive leaders of the Party nationally had proposed.

He began aggressively:

“ As you all know I was, am, and will be for ever opposed to the Scottish Parliament and Devolution whatever that is supposed to be. What has it done for us? What has it accomplished? As far as I can see, and my eyes are still as keen as they were in 1916 on the front line in France, all we have got is a big building ruining the view  that  Her Majesty has of Holyrood Park, a load of expense, and far too many jumped up councillors playing at being politicians. When it was suggested that we have a Parliament in Edinburgh, I told Ray Richardson, you remember him, fat boy, used to be chairman, yes, you do remember, though you maybe knew him as Fiona, the India Rubber Woman. Any way I told him, it’ll end in tears you mark my words, end of the Union and all that, just like this European nonsense, get us out of that soon as you like, both of them end of the empire as we know it. I told him, but did he listen, did he stuff, too busy leafing through the Ann Summers catalogue and wittering on about booking his holiday in Thailand. But am I right, of course I am, I mean look at Ireland, no death penalty, no flogging and you might as well stuff £ notes in a furnace as buy their bonds. And who has to bail them out? Not the bloody eurocrats is it? No us,  the poor British tax payer. Now I am as patriotic as the next man, but  all these Irish Johnnies came over here, breeding like rabbits, getting our council houses, taking our labouring jobs and then working on the roads to send all those £’s back to Ireland to prop up the euro. Not just that,  they are responsible for supporting foreign football teams and singing IRA songs to provoke true scottish fans like the Rangers boys. You ask me about sectarianism, I’ll tell you this, I never discriminated against any body unless they were Catholic or a priest or sometimes both. Anyway thankfully they are mostly in the West and good Tories don’t go there anyway. See the West, Glasgow and that, it’s full of illegal refugees, so called immigrants getting our social security and they give them all the best houses and buy the stoves and sofas and tables and bloody great colour washing machines with flat screens all on social security, and what does the Scottish parliament do, I’ll tell you what it does, nothing thats what. Why, because all your Labour politicians are up to their elbows in community projects and getting our money from the council and closing down the RAF bases up North so there is more money to spend on these Serbians and Bosnians, most of them are Muslims too, they run these schools they call them madrassis or some such, which means bomb making in English and those ones from the SNP are no better, I had that John Swinney up in Stanley the other day, useless bastard, just kept muttering “SVR, SVR, I knew we should have told them”. I asked him why the SNP gave all these council houses to these terrorists and he went into a rant about Full Fiscal Freedom being an unalienable right under the UNHCR and any way since the  SNP had lost the election it wasn’t his problem, blamed it all on some bloke called Calman, probably the next Labour heid bummer. They’ve had more leaders that I’ve had German lead in my arse, that Wendy Alexander didn’t last did she? No sooner got the job than Salmond laughed at her and made her cry, next thing she’s having twins and pleading for more time with her family. Then that Iain Whatsisname, just stands up there and squeaks, says nothing, mind you since Salmonds gone there’s no fight left in the SNP, at least thats one good thing. And another thing talking about Germans, when are we going to stand up to them, eh? That Scottish Parliament is rubbish, they don’t do a thing, they should make it illegal for Germans to come here flogging their machinery and cars and Tyrollean hats. The next thing is the Germans’ll make it compulsory to join the Euro just so they can get their hands on our Royal family and repatriate them cos they are fed up of that Merkel, well apart from being a woman, all she does is cosy up to yon Sarkozy, making cow eyes and slurping noises”

 Trotter had to pause for breath at this point, his jacket lapels were drooping from spittle and white flecks clung to the corners of his mouth, he resembled the winner of the Grand National being led into the paddock, all sweaty and wall eyed, flushed with adrenaline and triumph.

 Baron Sandstone stood,  “ Thank you, Willy, very fine statement of all we old hands hold dear. Now before we hear from Fergus and Miss Macmahood, we should take a short break, some of us are needing to strain the greens, not used to sitting for so long, the men can go outside, eh? Leave the cloakroom for the memsahibs, what? Back in five minutes if you don’t mind, must get on.

TO BE CONTINUED............

Beloved Leader Part one (in case you missed it)

May 10th 2012,

Chapel Street

Leith

 

The lowering clouds grimly oppressed the small band of people scurrying along Chapel Street in Leith,  making their way to the Scottish International Headquarters of the Conservative and Unionist Party of The United Kingdom (Northern Ireland excepted). The  gloomy Tuesday evening, grey and dank as it was, had not affected the festive mood, for this was to be an auspicious day, a day when the party would burst forth once more and recapture the glory days, when the folk of Scotland would realise how wrong and shortsighted they had been, when people through out the industrial wastelands of Aidrie and Shotts, and gnarled vassals in the mining vullages of Fife will strew garlands before the Conservative candidates in  forthcoming elections, indeed a glorious day, the day when the new leader of the party in Scotland was to be announced.

In the small ante room to the lock up garage that was now the central office of the party, the ruling council of the party were assembled under the chairmanship of  Baron Sandstone, whose report published in 2010 had sent shockwaves through the ranks of Tory blue by recommending the establishment of new rules and OMOV in the choosing of the Leader Assistant Scottish Section (Lass). Flanked by Malcolm Welsher, the flaxen haired beauty who was the keeper of the purse and beloved of the rank and file, and who had once fancied himself as a candidate for leader until that regretful incident at Conference when the vice chair of the YC's had reneged on the initiation ceremony. Malcolm still has dry heaves at the scent of Vosene shampoo. On the other side Minty Donaldson, ex vice chair of the party and recently rehabilitated,  glowered as she approved lists of potential Parliamentary candidates. "No", she muttered, "no, no, not one of us, wrong colour,  certainly not, maybe, definite not,too hairy, no, no". Arrayed around the table were the remaining forty three members of the executive chosen on the basis that the executive should always outnumber the membership. Those that were awake (roughly half), were keen as mustard to help choose the next leader, though they were somewhat confused at the procedures. Most were slightly aprehensive and anxious at the brooding presence of the Man from Millbank, dispatched by The Overall and Undisputed Supreme Leader to ensure fair play and the selection of the officially sanctioned Candidate. The Gods preserve him if he was to get it wrong and an independent thinker rose to take charge.

In the cordoned off corner by the cloakroom, the four candidates sat silently, lost in rumination. Arabella Tweedie, leader of the eight remaining MSPs in the Scottish Parliament, surreptitiously tightened the straps of her heather lined, long legged passion killers, so beloved of Prince Philip. She masticated absently on a rusty nail, eschewing the cans of Irn Bru. Not for her the diluted juice of imported steel, she chews her girders raw. She wondered "How it had all gone so wrong? Since assuming the position of leader on Dreary O'Letchie's demise after taking too many cabs at public expense, after midnight, to the house of a compliant and bosomy policy advisor and meals on wheels supervisor, she had thought her position impregnable. "Well , let me get this little hiccup out of the way" she promised herself, "then we shall see who is boss. Minty Donaldson will be banished once more to Ayrshire to continue to breed her albino ferrets and all power shall be mine once more". 

Across from her, Fergus Maser, her long time deputy and bag carrier, practised jutting his manly jaw. Long thought of as a shoo- in for the leaders role when Arabella finally at the age of 108 decided to lay down her shield, he manfully hid his doubts. He knew that having been rejected for the parliament in 1999 he was lucky to have scored a bye when a sitting member was manhandled from the party, and he took his seat. With wildly swivelling eyeballs, he had once been spoken of for the role of Mad Eyed Moody in a Harry Potter remake. He had little originality, relying on spouting right wing  nonsense and the climbing of Munros to attempt to make any impact outwith  Forfar.

Willy Trotter, world war one ace, and fabled lover of the blessed Margaret, in the comfort of his own eiderdown, had been around the party for many years. A former MP he believed in flogging, the sale of council tenants, flogging, return of the poll tax, flogging, the compulsory flying of the Union flag on all public buildings  for twenty four hours every day, flogging, the abolition of votes for women, flogging, and sanctification of all RAF personnel. His leadership campaign headed by his trusty labrador had concentrated on rural Perthshire and he had roundly trounced the upstarts who questioned his age and ability. "Talent is no qualification for leadership" he was fond of declaiming, "head down and attack out of the sun, thats the way to do it"

Pashmina (call me Shimmy) McMassood, was the dark horse candidate according to Baron Sandstone. The daughter of a wealthy cloth merchant who scotticised his name when he first immigrated from Kenya, she had a Masters degree in Islamic ladies fashion from the newly formed Imperial College of Coatbridge, and a budding career as a political blogger and TV chef. She was a recent recruit to the Scottish Tory ranks, having flirted with the Lib Dems, then switched to the SNP where she was arm candy to the education secretary for a while. She fell victim to factional disputes in the West of Scotland  as a Labour candidate for Govan and was one of the few columnists not to have practiced pole dancing for the Scottish Socialists. Her support amongst small shopkeepers in Glasgow, through championing of liberalising the sale of alchohol and tobacco laws for the under twelves had led her to the final four, on the threshold of seizing power and prestige as the newly elected Great Leader.

 

The stooped figure of Alicia, the 94 year old Secretary to the Scottish Executive Council, beckoned the candidates forward. "As you know" she said  "Each of you can speak for three minutes and then one of you will be anointed. Please follow me" After minutes of fumbling she ushered them before the Grand Executive committee where the shrivelled figure of Baron Sandstone, rose unsteadily to greet them.

"Good evening and welcome" he began "As you know we are here, tonight, to choose the next great Leader of our Glorious Party (North Britain Cadre).  Although we widely publicised that one member one vote would determine the election of leader, you all realise it is far to important to be subject to that sort of nonsensical democracy. So the Scottish Grand Executive Council will have the final say. And can I also remind you that since the chairmanship of the Party is in the gift of the Leader, naturally those of you who have indicated that they wish me to remain, will of course, get my recommendation. As you see, Council, we have two candidates who are white, of the male persuasion and patriotic. They are both Christians, of the Church of Scotland, and either of them would be eminently suitable. We also have two others, Miss Mc Massood, who graciously consented to wearing her national dress for us tonight, and hasn't she got lovely eyes, and of course our very own winsome, charming and utterly self deprecating Arabella Tweedie, who has rushed here from Strictly Come Dancing rehearsals to be re-annointed tonight. So you each have three minutes and we would ask you all to bare your right knee, and sing a  rousing chorus of Jerusalem before we commence"

TO BE CONTINUED..............

 

 

Service with a smile

My habitual pre Christmas visit to Scotland is primarily to stock up on books, which are available in Spain in English but prohibitively expensive, and items for Christmas which are hard to find in Catalonia. So it seemed prudent to pre book a 20kg bag on Ryanair at the not inconsiderable cost of £20 per  leg of my journey.

10 happy shopping days later which involved waiting around for Citylink to deliver my Amazon order, (Five days for a so called next day delivery), Hours spent in Waterstones and the absolute paradise that is Waitrose (compared to Spain even the Co-op is paradise) I packed 15 books, two kilos of mincemeat, packets of suet, shortbread, oatcakes, tea bags, tomato puree, stem ginger, smoked mackerel, Stilton and Christmas crackers and groaned at the sheer weight.

As Ryanair has decided to cease flying to Gerona from Edinburgh, I humped and puffed my way from Haymarket to Prestwick, braving icy winds in Edinburgh, Kent, the overweight and surly tea trolley operative, to whom every customer is a pest on the Glasgow train. Traipsed from Queen St to Central dodging the open sewers that Glasgow streets become after a shower of rain and missed the train to Ayr by three minutes.  Arriving in Prestwick, my humour not the sunniest, I was greeted by that initial delight of the frequent flyer, the bag drop. Inching my way forward as various examples of scottish educations brighter failures were giving the check in operator ripe examples of humour and invective, I finally arrived at the desk,  put on my best smile and levering my toe under my bag attempted to lighten the load. The lady clerk, for sure she was a lady, went through the litany, is this your bag , did you pack it yourself, etc, etc. In my usual attempts at distraction I gabbled about the weather, asked if the flight was full, said how cold it was for her sitting in that awful draught and she handed me my luggage tag and then just as I was turning away the dreaded words came.

" I am afraid that you are 2 kilos over your bag weight, Sir, and Ryanair will charge you £40 today"

In one of those drawn out pockets in time when rash words can lead to outbursts of temper she paused, looked at me and smiled.  

I don't know how many emotions were in that smile, regret, sympathy, apology, understanding and empathy all rolled up together, but what ever was there did the trick. 

"Never mind" I said  " my own fault, not much I can do now"

I paid my £40, collected my boarding pass, and went through to departure. Not exactly a happy camper, but totally disarmed and calm. I don't know who you are, I didn't even get your name, however you brought much credit to Servisair and Ryanair. I don't know if it is training or whether you are a natural but that smile did more to enhance this travellers day than you can imagine, even if it did cost me an arm and a leg.

Business !) years ago

@tartancat , liked your experience in NY, I was there two years ago. People were universally kind, especially when they found I was from Scotland, with the exception of one fast food worker who became abusive cos I couldn't understand what he was asking me, I walked out of the place leaving him with a half completed wrap and a disbelieving look on his face. As to Scotland, I felt like a prince in Edinburgh yesterday, good experiences in everywhere from M&S to first Bus. Train conductor from Prestwick was a gem and spent ages making sure I had the cheapest ticket, and taxi driver actually got out of cab and opened the door for me. However I may be just over critical because in Spain we have the shop assistants from hell, rude, uncaring, slow and generally pig ignorant. In my view it is all to do with paying rubbish wages and total lack of training. I am praying for Tesco or someone to open up and wipe the floor with The local shops.

TypePad Conversations » Answer this question!

It's not just about you!

Typically in the world of entrepreneurship, the failure of an enterprise is considered harmless, sometimes necessary and always educational. An experience to be shaken off as the budding millionaire moves on to the next bright idea and new dawn.

However, things are not always so neat and tidy, as the experience of our village shows.

The story concerns two village families and two independent business men. The first, let us call him Juan, was a brickie, a good tradesman, in fact some people say exceptional. He decided to expand and took on a workforce of mainly immigrant workers, bid for some council contracts, completed them in a timely fashion and linked in with similarly ambitious partners to form a construction company that built a number of blocks of flats. All seemed well, and no one resented his Mercedes or the fine house he built next to his parents. The second, we will call him Josep, is a  house painter, he has seven children and worked like an ant, always turned up on time, did a very fair job for a very fair price, normally worked away on his own but sometimes with his oldest son. Life seemed  to progress and his family were fed and happy.

One block of flats completed Juan asked Josep to paint them prior to selling, a big job for Josep and one that necessitated him taking on a couple more painters to complete the eighteen flats. He completed them on time as he always did, and just in time for the bottom to fall right out of the housing market. Juan couldn't sell the flats, the bank called in his overdraft, he couldn't pay his own workers and certainly not Josep.

Josep had already paid his painters, and couldn't believe the disaster that had ruined his life. He despaired to the point of walking out into the main road in front of a thirty eight tonne articulated truck and tried to end it all. Fortunately the truck managed to stop and avoid him, but he is currently in the psychiatric ward and in the depths of a depression, the future is uncertain for his wife and seven children and his house is on the line. 

Juan has retreated behind the walls of his fine house, and is apparently dodging crowds of angry african immigrants who want to be paid. Since most of the money he lost was the banks he at least can go back to bricklaying .  Josep may never recover.

So next time you hear someone preach about the educative value of failure think about Josep staring at the walls in a locked ward and realise it is not all about the failed entrepreneur, it is also about the trail of misery they leave behind.