Susan Morrison: Thor blimey! It's Ma Hemsworth's laddie
News reaches us that Marvel is considering coming to Edinburgh to film the next instalment in its box office juggernaut. Naturally I am intrigued, and alarmed.
My female friends are forming ad hoc packs to bring down a Downey or hunt a Hemsworth. In the case of the Hemsworths you have a serious choice, since there seem to be enough of them to match to your favourite crisp flavour. Every time I turn around they seem to have launched a new model.
Chris, the big one, would appear to be the Hemsworth SUV All-terrain 4x4, but his brothers aren’t much smaller, which makes me tip my hat in appreciation to Mamma Hemsworth who must have eaten very cleanly through the pregnancy to build them boys. I don’t even want to think about the actual births.
Word is yet to reach us about the involvement of Scarlett Johansson in that leather outfit so tight that you can actually read the cleaning instructions. On her pants. I hope they put another layer in for the Scottish summer.
This new Avengers adventure, then, does it threaten the Castle? I only mention it because wherever these Marvel sky-zoomers appear, mayhem surely follows. God only knows what they’ve done to the property values of New York.
The Big Apple has been trashed by X-Men, Godzilla and Donald Trump, yet still she rises. Lady Liberty has been stomped on more than once by fire-breathing monsters, but there she stands, not a hair out of place. How does she do it?
You can swagger about all you like, Thor and co, but you just leave the skyline alone. Mind you, I know of several doughty castle wardens who could chill superhero shenanigans with an icy look and sharply worded reprimand, especially if it involves nonsense in the gift shop. And what nightmarish villain is there to face here in Edinburgh?
Are they to be tutted at aggressively in Jenners for taking too long to find their wallets when making a purchase? Perhaps the tram conductor will sigh heavily at them for trying to use a Day Saver on a trip to the airport? Or could the demise of the Marvel gang lie in the hands of the staff at the Caledonian Hotel, who kill them with kindness as they wheel out that special afternoon tea and insist they eat every scrap? Iron Man would never clear for take-off again, and the svelte form of the leather-clad Black Widow would turn from toned temptress to DFS three-seater sofa, reduced in the Spring sale.
No need for all this faff, just call in the Mob
Speaking of hunting, I see the great tradition of fox hunting and protesting lives on in the country. It’s even a plot line in The Archers, for heavens sale. Apparently you can still ride about chasing the beast, but someone has to shoot it, which all seems to be a most tremendous faff. What sort of superpowers does the fox have to justify this specific and expensive vermin control?
There’s no doubt he’s a pest in the country, but surely pest control should be swift and fuss-free, as any Mafia godfather will tell you. In fact, put out a contract on Mr Fox’s head and I am fairly certain that some wise guys could whack him efficiently without the need to tear up the hedges and thunder across the fields.
Donning fancy dress and sitting on a big horse to kill a fox is like me pulling on a suit of armour and firing up a flame thrower to sort out a spider. And if anyone has an old flame thrower they don’t want, let me know.
Tally-ho your way to Granton
Mr Fox, being no fool, has been moving into the city for a while now. Members of his family are regularly seen bin diving in Leith.
So, can I suggest that if the posh riders of the East Kent Hunt (careful if reading aloud, there) really want to do some good and deal with pests, they change their hunting grounds to Granton, and lets see some fence jumping action in Craigmillar.
The fox will probably have the last laugh as he escapes on a Number 22, using a Day Saver nicked from a baffled superhero.
A brush with danger in the Botanics
If there is a pest that’s getting organised in the city, its the squirrels.
As it grew dark in the Botanics on Sunday my friend and I turned to find a pack on our heels, with those bright dangerous eyes, those little sharp teeth and those hand-like claws.
We had no nuts with us to buy them off.
Had we not made a run for the Main Gate we may never have been seen again. They fell away behind us, chattering in the dusk. Probably plotting what to do when Thor gets here.
There’s an Edinburgh villain for you. Makes Hitchcock’s “Birds” look like fat seagulls.