Thanks to Black Monday, it was tatties-ower-the-side to oor happy new year wishes.
With one purse o’ her determined wee lips, Ms S plunged us back into a lockdown as severe as the one in March.
Although there’s no way, Hamish, I’m an SNP supporter, I have to hand it to Nicola and her PR team in Holyrood. Speeches breaking the very worst of news are excellently crafted – conveying her sympathy for us and determination to vanquish the hellish virus (mind you, where is Willie Wallace when the Nats really need him?).
Always several paces behind, Boris looks like a nincompoop by comparison – tumbleweed blown hither and thither by incompetent advisers.
My heart goes out to everyone in the hospitality and other industries who’ve been fighting for their jobs and businesses and now face what could be the final nail in their coffins.
Closer to home, I could greet for all the children, like my grand Toots, who’d been so looking forward to going back to school to meet their pals when – at the last moment – mums and dads had to break the bad news.
Meanwhile, some supermarkets were targeted by panic buyers hitting the shelves barely minutes after word of the new lockdown. Ba’-heids hooverin’ up lavvie rolls, rice, pasta and – wait for it – fresh veg. Presumably with a shelf-life of less than a week. Okay, if you neeps want mouldering neeps in your veggie basket, go for it. Just get used to the niff. And the slimy carrots. Bet ye boak! Serves ye right.
Another major lockdown also aywiz brings the fear of something essential conkin’ oot that you can’t replace until life returns to normal. Yes, of course it happened to me.
The very day after Nic’s doom-laden delivery, I loaded the washing machine, slammed shut the ancient Hotpoint door – the same door I’ve been slamming for months because it wouldn’t “click” ie work. This time, no amount of force would close the ruddy thing. Useless. Kaput. Need a new one, pronto. On the phone to my saviour, John Lewis. Virus shutdown. Panic, panic, panic. But hey, fit’s this? On the machine, a label I’d tried to remove yonks ago after the repair mannie stuck it on, having successfully replaced my ancient drum – punctured by a bra wire. Never machine washed my bras since. Still the vestige of a number left on the label. Called it. Got John. He had a new door catch fitted in less than half an hour. That’s the way – in a crisis – to do it!
High time Lawman made sir by Queen
You might recall last week I suggested my cooking heroine Delia Smith should get a damehood to put her on a par with Mary Berry.
Fa’ wid have guessed Delia’s team would read the EE? Comes to me an email from a Melanie of her “online staff”, saying she became a Member of the Order of Companions of Honour in 2017, adding: “Very exclusive – only 65 at one time, HRH being top of the tree. For her contribution to cookery and cookery education.”
Well, Delia, I’m super chuffed for you, but I still think a damehood should be on the cards.
The last time I got a celebrity response to my column was yonks ago when I mentioned something about then still living romantic novelist Barbara Cartland and she sent me a new pic, because she didn’t like the one we used. Her preferred image saw her swaddled up to her oxters in an enormous pink boa. Meanwhile, the other night I watched the superb documentary The Lawman, aboot oor ain Denis Law. He is a CBE and was rightly granted the Freedom of Aberdeen in 2017.
But surely now is the time this legendary player – who has also done so much to encourage young loons to hone their skills in the Beautiful Game – was honoured in a way so many other sporting heroes have been, with the title Sir Denis, or even Lord Denis of Printfield.
Amnesiac hotel guests boggle my mind
Did you see the story about some of the bizarre things left in the Neests’ various Travelodge hotels by forgetful guests?
Ye couldnae make it up.
Hugely valuable items like a crate of vintage whisky, a diamond-encrusted Rolex watch and a Versace ballgown.
Which feel amnesiacs left them behind?
Then the oddities, like giant angel wings, a 4ft crystal-encrusted red deer statue and – surely the queerest of all – a bag of doctors’ diagnostic equipment.
The mind boggles.
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