Mosswood City Limits

Back in the dim dark days of the winter of discontent and "sunny" Jim Callaghan, when the government could never make a decision; it became standard practice to allow any old minority interest group to form a QUANGO directed by a board of nutty professors, inept surgeons and broken bankers, whose task it was to explore the burning issues of the day such as wildflowers or VD. At every parliamentary session we are promised a "bonfire of QUANGOs" although all that seems to happen is that their numbers grow, several hundred at the last count, I believe. The organisation that draws my fire this week is what used to be called MOSS, Ministry of Odd Shaped Stones. This was fairly typical of the genre, a board of nitwits slowly climbing the ladder of gongs and honours whilst doing nothing much apart from chewing through a modest £4million annual budget in dusty offices on the shaded side of Charlotte Square. In fact they were quite popular in Argyll, an odd director would attend the local kirk, a field party or two would put up at our pubs and spread some cash around, and of course it is not just anyone who can spot odd shaped stones, so these coves were treated with a degree of respect.

However, time and tide, old boy; so just when we thought that MOSS was going to fade away, a sparkie young colonial in a short skirt and a push-up bra was dispatched by Porche from Whitehall to sort the poor fools out. Before one could say odd shaped stones fifty time the nitwits were out, the office moved to Ashford, Kent with handy connections to the Bruxcelles express, the budget multiplied by twenty and the desks fairly crammed with thrusting bureaucrats. Of course there was the statutory re-branding and Locality Agency, Stones, Crystals And Rocks (LASCAR) was born. Although we miss the cash I am pleased to say that the new lot have mainly confined themselves to Northamptonshire and Oxford, presumably an easy away day from Kent on expenses, to say nothing of jamming the printing presses with policy and method statements plus glossy brochures of every hue.

The point is that some over-eager rambler spotted an odd shaped stone on the braes of Ben Trolliagh and the twit reported it to LASCAR. The SAS have nothing on LASCAR, with indecent haste helicopters whirled, sirens wailed and the A80's 2,3 and 5 were closed to ensure the safety of what seemed like hundreds of clip boards scouring the wild hills of North Argyll. Despite the assistance of local mountain rescue groups who know these hills like the freckles on their daughter's noses, and hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of equipment and manpower thrown into the search, the odd shaped stone was never identified. I could have told them that at the start as the Great Braes of Ben Trollaigh are composed of zillions of tons of scree, sometimes oddly shaped, however I must lack the necessary PhD as I was never consulted. The only chaps I saw smiling were the Transerve squaddies who made a packet manning the roadblocks 24 hours a day, which kept Argyll cut off at the height of the tourist season for three days whilst this nonsense played out. Unfortunately for the wage packets of all the other public servants, they had to abide by the European Working Time Directive (as whole heartedly supported by LASCAR) limiting their working week to 36 hours and forbidding work after dark or when it rains, on health and safety grounds.

One fellow I met who was not too happy was a large Frenchman of Depardue proportions and great Bonhomie who had had his salmon rod and thousand euro reel lifted from a riverbank by neds. As the law was at full stretch clearing helicopter landing sites of ambulance chasers and journalists whilst placating locals who thought they were at the wheel of the General Lee on the Argyll byways in efforts to get home, all the visitor received was tea, sympathy and some form filling chez Dunoon Constabulary, perhaps a visitor to Scotland we have lost for ever; but let's face it we still have many odd shaped stones so there is hope yet. Only remember never to pick one up unless you have read all the LASCAR advice, sprayed some dayglo paint on it and plotted it's GPS position to four decimal places. Yours Aye. Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Fly Past

I seem to have put my foot in it as usual; for despite my best intentions I confusingly referred to both Bowling and Tennis clubs in my last scribble and may also unwittingly have shown a hint of insincerity in my apologies. I have edited my last twaddle to omit any offensive references which may effect the meaning of some passages, and I wish to make clear my support for The All England Lawn Tennis Club.


All this bad luck is proof, if proof were needed that one should never knock a Vicar off his or her bike, or indeed a Priest, Rabbi or Mullah for that matter. It was all a genuine mistake in the first place as no religious figure has cycled uninvited, the miles to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for may a year and so dearest Dottie was not expecting the dog collared body to somersault over Otto's bonnet while her attention was focused on inserting a Runrig CD in the silly little slot thingy in the dashboard, a simple error compounded by crunching the parish's rusty and trusty four speed Pashley Rural Special under Otto's fat rear tyres. Naturally assistance was quickly on the spot and the Rev was carried hot foot to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for first aid and a substantial restorative. It goes without saying that God's Representative left in Tanya's Taxi clutching a cheque which more than covered the indignity of any loss or injury. The rev has of course made the most of our embarrassment by inviting us onto every bally committee in the county and suggesting every batty scheme that might require our support. Normally one would chew on the old mustachios until the dust settled, however last Sunday's sermon linking the first three steps of the AA pledge to God's Grace whilst engaging yours truly in a holy stare was a bit thick.

Meanwhile a summer heatwave moves the Vin Rouge into the fridge and Mhairi complains vigorously about the steamy conditions in the kitchen, suggesting for the first time ever that her beloved kitchen range be switched off for the duration. I escape to the Scottish Game Fair for a few essential sporting purchases, and sip a cool glass of bubbles at the Adam & Co hospitality marquee, where it is good to see the the tax payer's bank bale out wonga being put to good use. A friend says how wonderful it is to see so many dogs at a show, now unheard of in his PC corner of the Commonwealth, moments before he is whirled away in a melee of snapping, snarling mongrels whose owners shout loudly and dodge flailing leashes. So all in all life is pretty good. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.