Horror of horrors. You wake up from a coma after a massive stroke. You’re a Scot, Welsh or you’re English and you discover the only language you can speak is Gaelic. Nightmarish. You’d never spoken it before.
An unfortunate Englishman, 61, has been diagnosed with aphasia, caused by brain damage, and he’s speaking in fluent Welsh. His vow for the new year has to be “never say Dai”.
Can I just add, in the spirit of New Year resolve, no offence to the Gaels. They well know it’s all good fun.
Stray notes . .
Possibly you need reminding. Friday was the shortest day. Already the nights are fair stretching, like they say. Shorter beds and longer in them is what I’ve always said.
Disgusted. Mixed up. Don’t know whether to watch whispering David Attenborough’s new African series after the revelation that bits of it have been faked. You can’t trust these open-air adventurers. Same with Bear Grills. Some of his stuff was a sham and it’s a shame.
The Argies are demanding the Falklands, their new President having thrown the toys out of the pram. Do we have to spank their bums again?
Best of the telly over the hols, by a mile, the profile of John Le Mesurier. Richly deserves a repeat screening.
Afterwords . .
. . . and this one’s for men only. Brian Sewell’s the sage: “I know never to wear a plain tie to lunch or dinner – only one that is heavily patterned can survive a gravy stain.”