The possible reasons for a power cut lasting longer than 20 minutes sets imaginations running wild, writes Iain Maciver.
We had a power cut here on Sunday morning. It went on for a couple of hours.
Any power cut that lasts longer than 20 minutes has me thinking that maybe something very serious has happened. Maybe the revolution has begun. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Revolution? Ach, not on a Sunday in the Outer Hebrides, that’s for sure.
I then began to think big thoughts that people around the country had maybe risen up to protest about Gary Lineker’s suspension. Should I dare look at my phone? Could I bear to see Twitter videos of the hordes marching to BBC Scotland HQ? For some reason, I couldn’t find any mention of that.
Maybe there was a news blackout, and maybe power workers, too, were downing tools to join the protests about Lineker being shoved off Match of the Day because of his tweet about government language.
I couldn’t get to Glasgow quickly, so I began looking for stuff to make a placard that I could wave outside BBC Alba here. Solidarity, yay. Then the lights came back on. Yay. So, that was the end of that.
The lights came on for many as Ash Regan said SNP members should vote for her because she wants to win the next election so she can go to 10 Downing Street and ask the prime minister if we could have independence, please, please, please. She hasn’t really set the heather on fire with that one. I think the members jumped to a conclusion then, all right.
Kate Forbes was last week accused by senior Nats of trashing her own party. Her first clash with Humza Yousaf on telly wasn’t even about the party – it was about him.
Kate was right. The trains were rubbish, the cops were at breaking point, and the hospital waiting times were too long – all when Yousaf was in charge. He was rubbish at those jobs.
So, Wee Katag – no, I will not say Wee Free – went up in many people’s estimation, simply because she said it like it was – without the usual cringeworthy party slurpiness. Love you, Katag.
Precious few politicians have the spherical steadfastness to admit their own party’s failures. Fergus Ewing’s influence is rubbing off. Fergie loves admitting his own party’s cock-ups – like the A9 widening scandal – and working on plans to fix them.
We also need to fix major traffic problems right here. It’s these drivers from the Point area of Lewis, you see. They never give way to anyone.
Many mornings, I drive along Mossend to Sandwick Road. There are always hordes of these Rudhachs driving to work in Stornoway. They come from my left at the junction, so I must give way. They could slow down, wave me on and let me out, but no. Last week, I waited nearly 10 minutes for a break from these beasts from the east.
The Forth Bridge of footwear
What made it worse was the cold. My hands were freezing. So bitterly was I complaining that Mrs X gave me a pair of gloves. They wouldn’t even fit me. I must have big hands. Well, you know what they say about men with big hands. Yeah, they need big gloves.
Mrs X’s problem, though, was her cold feet. That problem has now been solved. Someone heard her complain so much about her chilly tootsies that they gave her a present of a pair of Crocs – you know, those plastic sandal things.
These are no ordinary Crocs, though. These are luxurious, fur-lined Crocs with cosy, soft socks built into them. Yeah, honestly.
They are an amazing feat of engineering, like the Forth Bridge. No, I don’t mean they are so big you can put a train on them, but they do have so much furry stuff attached that they are, er, elevated. So they’re much higher than ordinary Crocs.
Meanwhile, there are a few more fur-lined weeks to go before we know who is to be the next first minister
Now that she has gone up in the world, wearing clodhoppers she won’t be able to jump to anything – even conclusions. She loves them so much that they have changed the way she speaks. When she came in shivering on Monday, she shouted: “Where are my fu- fu- fu…”
I told her to stop there as I don’t allow bad language in this house. She looked at me and said: “I was just going to say: ‘Where are my fur-lined Crocs?'”
Meanwhile, there are a few more fur-lined weeks to go before we know who is to be the next first minister. And we still don’t know why Nicola Sturgeon jumped to the conclusion that she should jump ship.
I am now going to do my exercises to keep warm – flying off the handle, carrying things too far, dodging responsibilities, pushing my luck and jumping to conclusions.
Iain Maciver is a former broadcaster and news reporter from the Outer Hebrides
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