Did a gig over in Dalgety Bay the other week. It was loads of fun in a lovely new venue, the staff were great, the community turned out, and you should have seen the food. No, really, the food was amazing.
The waitresses kept wandering past with trays of lush green salads, steaks the size of Clackmannan and the chips! Did I tell you about the chips?
These chips were proper chips. None of your skinny wee French-fry nonsense here. These big golden belters looked like railway sleepers. They were great logs of lovingly prepared, top-whack tattie that had clearly been loved, cherished and treated to a night on the town, then cut to titanic proportion, possibly flown to a white sandy beach to lounge in the Caribbean sun cultivating a light golden tan, then whooshed into a bath of clean hot fat for their big stage moment as The Chips Of Dalgety Bay.
And the scent of those golden lovelies! I tell you: George Clooney, buffed, honed and slathered with scented oil could not compete with the L’Air du Chips Le Bay Dalgety.
Did I tell you I’m on a diet?
Yeah, well, I caught sight of myself in the M&S window, and realised I was, in fact, taking up the M&S windows. All of them. I was wearing a red jacket at the time. It looked as if Richard Branson had given up the idea of hot air ballooning across the Atlantic in favour of a lower-descent mission to drift a dirigible along Princes Street.
In the words of our American cousins, I was in “denial”, particularly in Debenhams and telling myself that elasticated waists are really fashionable, and I could, if I chose, fit into the size 12, but preferred the 16 for comfort.
I had begun to regard clothing items such as the blouson top, the jogging bottom and the kaftan with affection.
It was time to change. So I went on a diet. Naturally, I don’t diet like other people, who do the sensible thing and give up gin, count calories, and start exercising and all that. No, I lurched towards the extreme end of the diet world. I took up one of those shakes diets. I didn’t realise I was the one who would be doing all the shaking.
So, it’s been nearly two months now. I think I’ve forgotten how to chew.
Hold on as I take a deep breath . .
And those chips? They even sounded perfect. You know what I mean? That ever-so-slight crunch when the teeth bite into the firm fried skin and unleash the fluffy white glory of the really good chip.
You know what else I know? The baffled look in the expression on the face of a Dalgety Bay diner who has swung their head to discover they’ve eye-locked a desperate dieter hovering at their left ear trying to inhale their chips.
Doff your kaft to wee Demis
KAFTANS. Young readers may not be familiar with this garment. It’s a sort of highly patterned dress arrangement, much beloved of the late Demis Roussos, pictured, a Greek bloke with a remarkably high-pitched voice who used to belt out tunes for a living. At one point he was a large chap. Then he suddenly became a smaller chap. My theory was that he was never a fat chap. He had three midgets hiding under that kaftan who just upped and left one day. The midgets would also explain the high-pitched voice.
Perfect recipe for Eurovision
ON THE understanding that Scotland may have to field its own candidate for Eurovision in the not too distant future, I settled down to watch the whole bally thing last week to see if I could suss out how to build a winner.
We need a frock. Latvia appeared to have such a big frock that the tiny little girl who was singing must have been standing on a ladder.
I know the winner was a nice young man from Sweden sporting designer stubble and leather trousers, but that seems to be an aberration. Why, last year Austria hedged its bets with a singer in a beard and a frock and walked off with the big one. I rest my case.
We need a ballad. Something big, moving, using everybody in the orchestra, even those guys hiding at the back behind those great big drums.
And, most importantly, a key change. This would appear to be utterly vital.
At some point, there has to be a dramatic arm-waving moment complete with big sad eyes gazing into the camera like a desperate dieter in Dalgety Bay. My 12 points go to Jeanette Krankie in a huge frock with a heart-rending ballad about chips. Have I mentioned the chips in Dalgety Bay?