Off-shore wind farms look like a Good Thing on paper. They generate power from the wind, something we have a lot of in Scotland, and so therefore it would seem that it makes sense to have farms harnessing this abundant natural resource.
The offshore bit seems a good idea. Every time I’ve gone near a Scottish beach there’s a gale howling in from the sea blasting sand into your face. Don’t knock it. We could market that as a treatment for tired complexions.
Naturally, there are objections. Bird watchers say the big whooshing turbines do terrible damage to our feathered friends. Perhaps they do, although it hasn’t stopped the RSPB plonking a couple at their headquarters, but until the lesser spotted black backed sheerwing gull starts looking where it’s going, we’ll just have to live with it for now. On the up side, conger eels love them.
The objectors wail that the turbines are terribly inefficient. They probably are, but technology has a habit of taking a few decades to get into its groove. The first steam engines produced stonkingly low levels of power. They also had a habit of exploding now and then, but since it was generally just members of the working classes standing close by, it was no big deal.
Oh, they say, but look at the lasting damage these offshore wind farms will do to the environment. Ah well, you see, I grew up in the rusty central belt of Scotland during the 1970s, where the damage done by King Coal was all around us in a landscape scarred by spoil heaps and decaying pitheads. In addition, there was always the exciting possibility that next door’s pond could suddenly become a much larger water feature when an unmarked mineshaft collapsed deep underground, thus creating a landlocked loch big enough to host a Nato fleet review.
An offshore wind farm might look like a terrible blot on the landscape to some, but when technology moves on and we’re all getting free power from dilithium crystals, all that will remain will lie beneath the waves.
So do I support offshore wind farms? Well, look at it this way. If it annoys Donald Trump, you bet I support it.
Of course, I totally understand why the Trump fears and loathes the wind farm. If I had a combover like that, I’d fear them, too.
Fashion judges rule against me on courtroom couture
At last my chance came to fight for justice in this city. At last I was cited as . . . A Witness For The Prosecution.
What to wear? Well, bearing in mind that marvellous old black and white film with Marlene Dietrich, I rather inclined towards a cambric hanky, sheer veil, and black satin suit, which admittedly could be viewed as a tad overdone for the Sheriff Court.
Upon reflection I am glad that my friends talked me out of the Dietrich look and steered me gently towards the simple white shirt, black jacket combo. My wardrobe lacks a shell suit which would appear to be the outfit of choice.
Well, it was a day out. We got herded into the witness waiting room despite the momentary panic on my part, when I thought I was being pushed into the witness protection programme and would ping out the other side with a new name and a maisonette in Cumbernauld.
The folks who work in what looks like the departure lounge of a particularly seedy Soviet era airport are just lovely and spend a lot of time force feeding you tea and boiled sweeties. They ignored the big telly, which, without a hint of irony, was showing Jeremy Kyle.
Oh, it got adjourned. Sometime in September I’ll get more sweeties and tea.
Reality bites for Nadine as she leaves a world of fairytales behind
Meanwhile, in the world of the Tories, or as the party’s sometimes known as, Never(worked)land . . . Nadine Dorries says Dave and George are a pair of posh boys who are out of touch with the real world.
Stand by, world, for her next announcement vis-à-vis bears, wooded environs and manure generation.
Jings. Who’s going to break the news about the Tooth Fairy?
Poshos’ poor excuse for a party
How dull are the parties James Murdoch gets invited to? Folk just standing about quaffing a cheeky wee Australian white, pinkies akimbo, whilst muttering about electioneering and BSkyB.
Why, at the last bash I was at, it was Abba till dawn, drink everything in the fridge/cupboard/under the sink (tip – gin and Andrews Liver salts. Gets you merry, keeps you regular), and sing along to Meatloaf. And there were only two of us, me and my pal Fiona.
At no point during the festivities did I think it appropriate to break off our spirited rendition of Paradise By The Dashboard Light to raise the issues of political funding and media control.
Proves what I’ve always suspected. Rich folk can’t party.