Newsreaders are a bit like the Western Isles weather of late – cold and grey.
Yes, they may look suave and intelligent but then you remember they are often only reading someone else’s words. They have that professional detachment, even when raising a smile and doing the inevitable: “And, finally…” on News at Ten. Intelligence doesn’t come into it.
I may have changed my mind about Angela Rippon when she danced with Morecambe and Wise. Other newsreaders got in on the Strictly Come Somersaulting act but they didn’t have the legs for it. No, I am not being sexist. I am discussing the technicalities of professional-style dance routines and the physical capabilities required for executing them well.
Clive Myrie – probably the best annunciator on the BBC, who can make even industrial relations stories seem half interesting – has detached himself from the newsreader’s chair and plonked himself in another. The new quizmaster on Mastermind, Myrie does seem cleverer than most. He does that off-script thinking look which means he probably has a good brain. He may not have the best legs for it but who cares? We’ll never see them in his new job either.
Wall-to-wall schmaltziness after Prince Philip’s death
Prince Philip had one job for a long time. Although no royalist, I was saddened by his passing. He was always there, standing slightly behind Her Majesty, while everyone wondered what he was actually thinking, he came out with some unguarded howlers over the years and people who knew him said he was very direct. He had a good innings, though. So there was no reason for the BBC to cram BBC1, BBC2 and the News Channel and radio channels with endless syrupy tributes.
We know it was big news but why were we forced into wall-to-wall schmaltziness? That was a bit of an insult, actually. A state broadcaster restricting us in what to watch and think. Many in this country reject the principle of inherited privilege and unearned riches. We should be allowed a choice by the broadcaster we fund. Akin to propaganda, which our leaders are so ready to condemn in other countries, they fell curiously silent.
I was struck curiously silent myself in the filling station the other day, where I met wee Ali. A guy strolled in and Ali raised his palm like a traffic cop and said: “Stop. You can’t come in without a face mask.”
Admitting he left it in his daughter’s car, the new arrival pleaded to be let through just for a few seconds “to get lemonade”. He promised to stay distanced.
It’s been as cold here as a newsreader’s stare when the autocue breaks down
Brave behind his mask, Ali replied: “I would let you in but my friend Iain is a stickler for the law. With him being a former judo champion, I think you should comply.”
I know nothing about judo. Nevertheless, the foiled would-be shopper looked me up and down then backed out mumbling apologies as he fled. I was livid at Ali. That cove was bigger than me. He could have thumped me.
To make it up to me, Ali invited me round to have a snifter in his whisky garden. I told him sternly that I’d wait until Nicola Sturgeon allowed visits to his patio of blends and then I would get my revenge by making his well run dry. It was too cold for the garden anyway. A couple of drams would have helped though.
It’s been as cold here as a newsreader’s stare when the autocue breaks down. On Friday morning, I couldn’t open the back door to get to the bins. Frozen solid. I had to go out early on the van and left Mrs X breakfasting. I got a text from her. It said: “Windows frozen. Won’t open. Will I force it?”
Oh heck, I thought. She is trying to open the back door and if she forces it she will smash that window. I texted: “No. Do exactly what I say. Go outside and pour lukewarm water on it and wait five minutes. If that doesn’t work, just repeat.”
Fifteen minutes later, she still hadn’t replied. So I asked if she had done it? She replied: “Yes, I did exactly what you said. But I think I’ve destroyed this laptop.”
