The truths they don't want you to read....
As in "What the Donald Duck is that on your head"?
An acquaintance sent on
a report in the Telegraph from three years ago about the patronising arrival of Trump, in which I am quoted.
But it is the quote from the walking hairpiece of vanity that really stands out:
He also revealed that he was planning to invest in charitable ventures on the island.
 |
| Vanity, thy name is hairweave |
Any news from anyone about any investment or indeed any gift?
Local councillors were also rubbing their hands in anticipation after he said he would consider funding the restoration of Lews Castle that overlooks Stornoway and has long been in need of a benefactor.
Indeed, who can forget the sight of the Councillors almost curtseying in front of the power on Mammon and vast credit lines? With Councillor Sanctimonious having invited the money lender into the temple, has he ever tried to follow up a single promise made by Trump about improving the islands? Or was the brief moment of self-aggrandisement by proximity enough to stop him asking difficult questions?
We were the location for a few minutes of good press for him, and he got to destroy ancient sand dunes for a World Class
(sic) Country Club, with golf course attached.
Thanks to
The Register for this gem of a genuine mug shot photo.
One shaken officer admitted: “It was hard to keep a straight face when the mugshot was taken. No one has ever seen teeth that bad."
I'm back from holiday and feeling great.
Looking great too, as this wide-angle holiday snap shows.
.....two mosquito bites on a pale white bum and sunburn in places that the sun shouldn't see, far less burn. Ouch!!!!
Publicity posters in town tell me that the old, old, pet shop on Church Street is just about to become a Thai Massage parlour.
Opening soon; and also offering manicures, pedicures, waxing and similar services.
With thoughts like that YOU (yes, you) are not definitely allowed near the premises.
It will certainly be a fantastic addition to the cosmopolitan metropolis that is Stornoway.
As I wander the streets and observe the stylish and classy Southern Europeans in their dress, attitude and behaviour, it is incredibly easy to pick out the less classy tourist, and you can soon identify just in what aspects they are in deficit.
I don't possess the style, self-confidence or utter contempt for fashion reality that characterises those who would claim to be 'style gurus', but I can give some guidance to the masses who may be heading on their holidays shortly. Good sunglasses; pedal pushers, for both men and women; smart sandals; and an air of insouciance are all positives. I can't give a complete positive list, so let's try the reverse.
Here is Angus' guide to “What not to do if you want to try to look classy on holiday':
6. Football gear. A subtle badge or baseball cap proclaiming your allegiance to Barcelona or Juventus can look smart. The complete Celtic/Rangers/Liverpool/ ManU strip for a night-time stroll along the promenade carries a certain cachet that only the wearer can fully appreciate; but it helps the discerning viewer to easily avoid the bars and restaurants favoured by such style victims.
5. Day-glo bright pink sunburn. A no-no in almost every situation, but when accompanied by the above it marks one out as being not local by a long shot and unable to carry an air of Mediterranean mystery. It is not in any way classy to be able to read the bar menu and the label on the can of beer or bottle of alcopops you are carrying by the phosphorescent glow from your skin. On this note, the production of the local brew in cans is for the benefit of tourists only – just look around you at the locals, for goodness sake – and the reason that the locals do not buy it is because of the taste (or lack thereof).
4. Multiple piercings – allegedly called 'body art' – may carry a certain air of mystery, edginess and suggest the wearer is in some way alternative. Having ten rings in your ears, nose and/or nipples may look trendy in your local night club, but subtlety is the mark of the southern European. Navel piercings can look smart, but where a large dangly earring has been inserted into a large dangly stomach, this is less attractive.
3. Coffee or a beer at the seafront restaurant at 3pm with a group of friends can be the epitome of class, style and cool. All-day fried breakfast at 3pm in the English Cafe washed down with 20 fags and a mug of tea and six pints of British lager is not.
2. Arse antlers. If you are trying to express your individuality by having exactly the same type of tattoo as all your friends, then you have perhaps missed the point. A sub-set of this group is whole-back tattoos for men depicting Celtic goddesses, writhing snakes or a football player. Tattoos of pictures of your children as babies is another popular mistake, especially for the children as they enter the teenage years.
Arse antlers - big , but not clever
1. If you have an uncle Calum who only ever visits Stornoway twice a year - once for the lamb sales and once to give his insurance details to the Police – then you will know just how embarrassing it can be for him to appear in his finest brand-new Stornoway Fisherman's Co-op black wellies and the barely-worn pinstripe suit he bought from Hepworths, before they closed in the early 1980's. Crocs perform the same function in Europe. Sold everywhere to tourists, and tourists alone, they mark the wearer as having less style and more gullibility than uncle Calum. In Stornoway, Crocs have two functions: on good days (40 per annum) they let the air into your feet to remove the smell and reduce the chance of foot-rot. On wet days (350 pa) they allow immediate drainage as you splash through puddles. Wear them in temperate climes and you are your uncle Calum, just in from the country to the big town.
Prescott tells of bulimia battle
Of course, as we now know, the taxpayer was funding most of this 'munch and chuck' orgy via MP's allowances. Just as we paid for his affair. But don't you just love the big lump, continuing to demonstrate that lack of ability does not preclude joining the gravy train.
Three days into the New Year diet and I haven't broken yet. Yet.
A final feeding frenzy over the weekend to consume all the chocolate hidden in the house (to keep it away from the children you understand!) was very successful, and we found other treats that were duly scoffed.
Monday saw the new regime of fruit, vegetables, low-fat cooking, and no red wine kick in with the expected consequences of unbearable smugness and sky-high expectations.
Tuesday saw the new regime of fruit, vegetable, low-fat cooking and no red wine augmented by the first visit to the gym for a few weeks. Making my way there in shorts in freezing winds and driving rain saw the resolve start to crack. Badly. The only consolation was the prospect of a warm shower after I was finished - and boy, was I finished after half an hour.
Day three has brought the blessed relief of some red meat. Albeit stir fried with loads of veg.
The absence of pre-dinner snacks whilst the kids eat their tea has been easy, but the introduction of muesli with skimmed milk into my breakfast routine has been contrary to the Geneva Convention.
Still, the red wine has been replaced with white, and despite the throbbing pain in my body from the gym I will tell anyone who can be bothered to listen that I feel better already.
I may even managed a second week of it.
What! No biscuits?
Three visits to the gym this week and my rippling six-pack is more of a loitering twelve-pack with two extra thrown in free.
A visit at 9am on a Saturday is only for the severely masochistic; those without a life; or in my case, those who have to take their children to early morning activities at the Sports Centre.
My aspiration for a svelte muscular figure before we go away is obviously going to take more work and suggestions I may need to diet as well are just to horrible to consider.
I ache everywhere, but I'm working on the principal of 'no pain, no gain' and I'm hoping that I may be fit enough for the 2014 Commonwealth Games. I am thinking about training for the Triathlon but only if they have a veterans and couch potatoes competition, and I don't have to do the swimming. Or much running.
Perhaps I'll apply to Sportscotland for a grant. Or maybe Weight Watchers.
I explored my metrosexual side this afternoon, when I went for one of my occasional treats at Body & Sole, for a facial and a massage.
(Don't bother with the predictable jokes)
I can thoroughly recommend the experience, as I left relaxed and refreshed and ready for my holiday next week. I've no idea what solutions, compounds and potions where rubbed in, but they still smell lovely and have left me feeling perky and raring to go.
The massage really hit the spot, as all the swimming in the
Scotsman Hotel had left my shoulders aching and tense, probably because I am totally out of shape. Just for the record, we didn't pay anywhere near the published rates for the room, as Expedia came up trumps, again, at about 1/3 of the normal cost.
What is it about going to the dentist that turns you back into a little child again?
Despite huge advances in technology, techniques and customer service, the sheer terror doesn't dissipate as you approach the chair.
And then, afterwards, the instruction to clean your teeth properly with (possibly) a demonstration from the dentist. Thank goodness that's over for another six months.
I understand the waiting lists in Lewis are now down to under twelve months, and with a 'cunning plan', the new management team intend to shorten it even further.
"The Donald" as he loves to style himself is constantly reminding everyone that his mother was Mary MacLeod from Tong, and consequently he loves "Skotland".
It is embarassing to see such a poor wig attached to a man who is attached to a trophy wife* who made (and lost and made and lost ad infinitum) his fortune amongst the gangsters of Atlantic City charm the First Minister. Sadder even that JackMcConnell falls for it.
Saddest of all, is that some local politicians last year invited Mr Trump to save Lews Castle, when he has never acknowledged the existence of the Western Isles (other to affirm his "Scotchness"). Their mistaken belief was emphasised by Mr Trump associates saying he had "never heard of Lews Castle".
Suddenly, "The Wig" pops up with grandiose plans to build a golf course in Aberdeenshire and demands all planning rules and decisions are waived. Does he find time to find out where Lewis is? What do you think? Why do we Scots repeatedly fall at the feet of such obvious chancers?
* "Tell me, the third Mrs Trump, as a model from the former Yugoslavia what attracted you to an elderly balding billionaire?"
Today was Environmental Services Committee, which I chair, and amongst the many items on the agenda was the regulation of tattooists and body piercers, which also includes those doing electrolysis.
Such is the range of activites that we have to oversee, that the Executive have given us this responsibility at very short notice to bring in the appropriate monitoring regime.
Ignoring the fact that our one local tattooist is in semi-permanent retirement, no-one as far as we can tell) still does electrolysis, we are left imposing rules, regulations and inspections on those putting ear studs into willing victims.
Sometimes you ask yourself "Why?"
On the up side, we managed to ensure a young couple were able to build their house despite SEPA trying to stop them on grounds that the Committee considered to be short-sighted. If SEPA had had their way, the deposit for the house may have been lost and the couple would have had to wait until at least next year to try to build a family home. I count that as a success, and it makes it all worth while.
