Bearded Bowlers

I was somewhat taken aback when idly flipping through the hundreds of hopeless channels available on the old 46 inch Plasma, to see some shots of a Scottish Bowling Federation championship. For years I have believed SBF members to be chaps with a proper sense of neatness and authority, blazered, flannelled and clean shaven. Imagine my surprise to see the men as Steve Irwin look-a-likes and the ladies in racy white summer frocks, worst of all beards were very much in evidence. What has happened to this pillar Scottish urban and village life, what next, coloured balls?

The old Governor used to claim that the summer started with Wimbledon and the silly season started with the release of rusticated Oxbridge undergraduates and the recess of The House of Lords, and he should have known as he was very familiar with the former! However it is true that Glen Trollaigh only seems enter the Bog Myrtle scented, Cleg slapping, dog days of summer well after the Solstice and the nights are fair drawing in. This year the poor chaps at the All England Lawn Tennis Club must be in a bit of a spin after spending zillions over several years to fit Centre Court with a tin top, to have seen nary a drop of rain. However the Old Man was a bit off the mark with the silly season which seems to start earlier and earlier with the passing of each year, mainly fueled by charity runs featuring men with underpants on their heads and girls with bras on the outside of their clothing, all very commendable but about on a par with people throwing themselves of large hills on mountain bikes, another manifestation of the silly season if ever there was one.


Talking of underpants, the boundless lunacy of "irresponsible campers," as we now must respectfully call the lads and ladettes who spoil the peace of Glen Trollaigh and recklessly leave piles of poo for the unwary land manager to stand on, now includes tearing off all one's clothes while shouting at the top of one's voice and trying to throw the empty 40 oncer further than your buddies. I am not sure what they wear to get home, or even if they have a home to go to, for the cast apparel is discarded at the campsite along with all the other rubbish. If it were brightly coloured scanties one might be a bit more sympathetic, however it has fallen to me to liberate three pairs of ghastly boxers and two pairs of jeans from the riverbank over the past days, while innocently searching for a fish. Still one can be secure in the knowledge that China will churn out millions of replacement garments in the time it takes yours truly to scribble this nonsense. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

PS. The blog police at GHQ have shopped me to the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I have been asked to withdraw all comments about the new Centre Court roof and point out that it has in fact been put to good use. All-be-it to force Andy Murray to play on till midnight in an attempt to exhaust him whilst sticking to the new rule book. I am very pleased to say that this conspiracy did not dent young Murray's splendid efforts and he has played to his seed level. One can almost hear the howls from the treasurer's office as he or indeed she signs off the largest prize winnings ever won by a Brit, to a Scotsman! A.T.

Cats don't poop

Thunder and heavy showers sweep from the north giving a more chilly feel than the 18C suggests,at least the breeze halts the progress of those bally midgies that have been making outside work fairly miserable. Unfortunately outside work is high on the agenda with everything from window painting, grass cutting and large scale gardening high on the priority lists, leaving little time to pursue more important matters such as the globalisation of "Troll Treats" our new pet food empire. The original name of "Archie Trollaigh Treats" has been changed to mollify our French partners to whom AT&T means something totally different, some sort of continental disease I believe. However having a few frogs on the board does prove helpful on some occasions such as choosing new cars for senior executives. My gallic opposite number Francoise de Trollee, some very distant cousin, immediately started wittering on about "le scrappage" which I had thought was a rather strict affair to encourage the hoi polloi to trade in their rusty Cavaliers and Mondeos for battery pedal cars. However this is not the case in La Belle France. One ships a couple of untaxed old bangers sans the MOT certificate on the back of a lorry across La Manche, bribe a Prefect or two who will provide the required paperwork then trade them for €6000 each with their UK number plates torn off, against a nice new Merc, Onion Johnnie is naturally even more enthusiastic if it is a new Renault or Citroen and indeed their new cars are much less expensive on the far side of The Channel in the first place. One then ships one's new ride back to Blighty on the back the same said truck, all very dodgy, but I like it.

Dearest Dottie lets slip the news that the sprogs are in a bit of trouble, in fact they may have brought the odd bolt of lightning around the ancient ears. Both offspring have been aboard the European gravy train of the Reducing Unnecessary Grass Care Carbon Emissions Trials (RUGCCET) for some years and it appears that as well as their generous salaries in Bruxelles, the London allowance and the daily living allowance which is more than enough to eat one's self to death in good Belgian hostelries, the sillies have been claiming "second mower allowance" on four state of the art Toro triple gang mowers supposedly housed and used for research here at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh. Regrettably the minxes are well practiced in the forging of yours truly's signature, taught same by some beastly bearded art teacher at school. So it goes without saying that your friendly Baron is up to his neck in fraud and forged paperwork. We quake as we await the arrival of the Euro Fraud Squad who will find nothing more than a couple of elderly Honda strimmers and an Atco LawnMaster circa 1950 all held together with bailer twine, and not a research project in sight.


I am happy to report that as warmer weather spills into Glen Trollaigh, the threat of a euro fraud purge recedes as those delightful daughters did allow me one toe on the bottom rung of the gravy train when their RUGCCET lot produced a lengthy work on domestic animal defecation and its effect on grass cutting. Apparently the euro grass commissioner did not fancy the use of the word defecation and I was offered a substantial incentive, nicely tied in with Troll Treats, to come up with an alternative. It's pretty obvious really: POOP. Imagine my surprise when a terse note shot back from RUGCCET terminating my contract, as every sensible person apparently knows that cats don't poop. Hey Ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Free Lunches.

Back home at last in dear old Glen Trollaigh, and apart from missing the on set of swine flu not much seems to have changed. The Tower of Glen Trollaigh has been looking magnificent in the May sunshine, some three weeks without a drop of rain. The last few years have given us a bonus spring in April/May, this year it seems cooler, shorter and later. However the great garden designer's Azalea bank is looking absolutely fabulous and our proper English Bluebells carpet the ground under Pinus Sylvestris. Although the soil was not warm enough for potato planting and veggie sowing until the end of the first week in June, some three weeks later than 2008, even now we still have a risk of ground frosts in the North Argyll Glens.

Extra locks and security cameras have kept ad hoc guests out of the more important areas of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh such as the wine cellar and my library during our absence. However, Lachie and Mhairi have complained about a fairly steady stream of visitors banging on the Great Door of Trollaigh on some weak excuse or another and blagging a night or two's free board and free fishing. Well my friends you know who you are and expect a frostie reception when next you call, despite your pathetic use of false names in the visitors book, because most of you were caught on the CCTV sniffing around the cellar door.

Herbert "Useless" Trollaigh MEP was actually in residence on our return despite Mhairi's pointed suggestion that he should clear off. Herbert is one of the twenty odd UK MEPs who have chosen to retire at this month's European Elections before they get thrown out for signing into the Parliament every day to collect their £175 daily living allowance, then promptly buggering off to the yacht. The idiot spent all day on his i-phone negotiating a two year salary in advance severance package and then hysterical calls to his colleagues arguing how they could possibly split up the £10 million additional pension pot that they have managed to grovel for. Hell mend them say I. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.