Alan Taylor's Diary

0 Comments | Sunday Herald, The, Dec 23, 2007

HEADING home on the top deck of a bus the other evening we came to a halt in no man's land . . . Portobello.

Suddenly, the driver appeared up the stairs and demanded to know if anyone was asleep. No-one replied, not because of unconsciousness, but because they couldn't be bothered.

The driver asked again. Same response. "Control, " he said, "thinks there's someone asleep up here." Then he disappeared, leaving me to wonder who control was, how he knew someone might be asleep, and what he was going to do about it if his suspicions were confirmed.

Merry Christmas to one and all!

Cardinal could settle Rowan's misconceptions

YOU do not need me to tell you that we live in the weirdest of times. Take Dr Rowan Williams, a so-called divine. Dr Rowan is the Archbishop of Canterbury, which makes him the heidbummer of the Church of England, which is to religion what the LibDumbs are to politics, ie makeweights.

Quizzed on radio by Ricky Gervais, a sausage supper, Dr Rowan intimated the Christmas story as told in the Bible is largely hokum, from the three wise men to the virgin birth.

Thus he played straight into the grubby hands of infidels such as Richard Dawkins, who makes his living denying the existence of his Maker, and Christopher Hitchens, who recently described in loving detail how he made his testicles bald. No wonder my Taliban chums think the West is full of decadent reprobates. But back to Dr Rowan, who one might have thought would now be considering his position. Not a bit of it. He may not believe that Jesus was born without any houghmagandie ever having taken place between Mary and Joseph, that there was no room at the Holiday Inn and that He was perforce born in a manger in a stable bare, and that there was no snow in Bethlehem 2007 years ago because a BBC weatherman says so, but he cannot surely stand in the pulpit on Christmas Day and ask his flock to take him seriously. Even more mystifying, though, is the silence of other so-called divines, who one might have thought were a tad upset at Dr Rowan's witterings. Not for the first time do I bemoan the absence of my dear friend Cardinal Thomas Winning who would have known exactly how to put Dr Rowan in his place with a . . . metaphorical . . . Glesca kiss.

Queen squashed my support

LAST week good Queen Tupperware set yet another record, becoming the oldest ever monarch to perch on the British throne, overtaking in the process Queen Vicky, best known as the mournful licensee of a pub in Albert Square.

This auspicious occasion led to a 21-gun salute from monarchists who seem to think that Tuppie is an even more important national figurehead than Sir Terence Wogan.

Among her most loyal subjects is one William Shawcross, who is writing her official biography which, given his recent effusions, promises to be as punchy as the message on a Hallmark card. "Monarchy, " twittered Mr Shortcrust, "gives a human face to government. A royal family, far more than a republic, embodies all the rituals of life with which we are most familiar . . . birth, marriage, death and other anniversaries and milestones. The familial makes familiar and trusted."

Such mush is typical when it comes to the royal family, against whom I have nothing in particular. My beef is personal, stemming from one of Queen Tuppie's garden parties of which I had high hopes. None, alas, was met. And I cannot forgive a woman who thinks it acceptable to serve orange squash to guests over the age of three, which is why I am proposing that the 1603 Union of the Crowns be consigned to history.

If my dear friend Alexei Salmonella can call for the end of the UK, then I would like to do the same for Queen Tuppie and her weans. When she goes, let's crown our own queen, preferably someone who eschews headscarves and doesn't always look as if she's lost at the bingo.

All-too-familiar taste of Haggis

ACCORDING to a report, viewers and listeners unfortunate enough to live within BBC Scotland's bailiwick are unlikely to recognise the country from what they see and hear on their TVs and radios.

This is most unfair. The Scotland I see and hear about courtesy of BBC Haggis is all too familiar, from wee, fat, bald men with shirts hanging out their jeans talking endlessly about football and joshing about drink, to women who took elocution lessons from Ma Broon and dress like blind WAGs who stalk pop stars like dogs in heat.

The sheer banality of Haggis's programming accurately represents this peedie part of the planet where an ancient respect for education and intellect has been supplanted by the wanton parading of ignorance and a fear of anything that might challenge the little grey cells.

In that regard the BBC cannot be faulted. Nor are things likely to get any better from what my many correspondents inside its shiny new HQ tell me. In 2008, 230 posts are due to go, offset by the introduction of "up to" 130 new ones. Hardest hit, it would appear, will be Radio Scotland and its beleaguered features department, once upon a time the station's crowning glory.